Pieces of April
by VioletSm0ak
Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason's second life takes an abrupt new turn and he's faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for. [baby!fic]
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** On the anniversary of his death, Jason's second life takes an abrupt new turn and he's faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

**Rating:** PG-13 (Rating may change later)

**Warning(s):** Past Jason/Isabel mentioned, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who), I'll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

**Canon-Compliance:** Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro. Implied past Jason Todd/Isabel Ardila

**Author's Note:** I've been posting this on Ao3, but figured I should add it here as well.

* * *

Despite the carefully cultivated exterior of a hardened criminal, Jason Todd is remarkably straight edge.

After what happened to his mother, drugs were never going to be a thing; he stopped smoking long before a lunatic clown beat him to death and though his preferred hangouts tend toward bars, that's more to keep an eye out for trouble than for slinging back shots.

There are exceptions, of course: coping with any kind of murder that involves kids; the days immediately following another one of Joker's breakouts and inevitable mind games; Some of the worse fights with Bruce.

And certain anniversaries.

Days like today, when all he is boils down to traumatic flashbacks of metal caving in his lungs, high-pitched laughter, and mounting fear turned to begging for the end. Circular thoughts and 'what-ifs' that he ignores or pushes to the back of his mind every other day of the year are stronger now, now occupy his mind with the stubbornness of a cancer.

Today's a day for hard whiskey and keep it coming until he can't see straight, for everything to melt away behind a fog of false levity until he wakes up again and he can forget for another year.

He's nearing that point when his phone rings.

It's not the harsh tune of _I Hate Everything About You_ that he's programmed for any of the Bats civilian phone lines but a generic ringtone.

_So not a call from them to offer sympathy, but not an emergency either._

If they couldn't reach the comm in his helmet, they'd just show up.

He ignores it, goes back to his drink.

There's a brief silence once it goes to voicemail, and then ten seconds later the ringing starts again. The bartender is giving him a look with raised eyebrows, but Jason just gestures for another finger of whiskey.

Around the fifth time, Jason does pick up the phone if only to turn the damn thing off or chuck it at a wall. Then pauses at the Caller ID—Gotham General.

_What the hell…?_

No one he knows would contact him on a public hospital line.

His thumbs fumble as he accepts the call, but even as he barks out, "What?", he hears a static _click_ that tells him he just missed the call. The electronic monotone of his voicemail bids the incoming caller leave a message.

There's a pause, and then a stranger's weary voice comes on the line.

"This message is for Jason Ardila. I'm Dr. Kerry at Gotham General Hospital. We have you listed as the next of kin for Isabel Ardila." Jason straightens up as best he can at this. "I have news regarding your wife's condition. It would be best if you came to the hospital as soon as possible. You can reach me at—"

He rattles off a number, but Jason doesn't catch it, mind whirling.

Isabel? Next of kin? What the hell? Wife? Even more what the hell. At least she knows not to give his real name, but…again, why call him? They aren't exactly close, and he hasn't seen or spoke to Isabel since that thing at Elysium.

_That was…what…last July?_

He counts back again, needing to check his math against his alcohol muzzled brain. In any case, it's a few months shy of a year, which makes it more than random she's calling him now.

_Wait…three months shy, to be precise. _

"—can't make it here within the next two hours, please contact a hospital representative to assist you."

The message ends.

Jason stares blearily at the phone for several minutes, trying to put his thoughts in order.

Something needles at the back of his mind, and his thumb smudges across the screen to open his browser, pulling up Gotham General's staff directory. It takes longer than he'd like to navigate, squinting at the text that's far too small before he remembers he can resize that shit, and finally he locates—

_Dr. David Kerry, M.D., F.A.C. S., Obstetrician._

Jason's stomach lurches.

He counts back again, just to make sure.

April back to July.

Almost nine months.

Almost nine months since the last time he and Isabel—

_No. No way, it must be a coincidence. Probably she just got into some trouble. The kind of trouble that needs the Red Hood to solve, and that's why she named me as a contact. Might even just be a message._

He scrubs a hand down his face, trying for sobriety.

_But then why didn't she call me and tell me? Why wait until she's at the goddamn hospital?_

And under the care of an obstetrician. That's…the thing he's most concerned about.

_There's no way. She said she was seeing someone, if there were anything, it would have to do with him. But then…why contact _me_ and not _him_?_

He's dimly aware of shrugging his jacket back on, of throwing a bunch of bills on the bar-top and wandering out despite the barkeeper calling something to him. Of getting out into the chill and damp spring air, trying to hail a cab, because yeah, the bike he left in the alley has an autopilot feature, but Jason doesn't feel like risking road rash if he slips off it on a sharp turn. Which he might do, considering he drops his wallet twice trying to put it back in his jacket.

Also, if he and Isabel need to make a quick exit if she's hurt, it will be easier for him to steal a car later than try to put her on a bike. And if she's not alone—

_Don't think about it._

As he gets his wallet back in his pocket, he remembers he basically gave the barkeep all his cash, and shit, does he even have anything left? This means he's going to waste time going back in and taking it back since the guy hasn't exactly followed him out to return it. Probably thinks it's a tip or—

Jason stiffens, that sixth sense honed from a childhood on the street and training under the most paranoid man in the world bypassing his otherwise alcohol clouded senses to warn him. Someone's behind him.

"Whoever you are, you _really _don't want to test me right now," he growls, speech only a little slurred. Shit-faced or not, he's still a better fighter than any low-tier thug in Gotham.

"I'm not testing anything, except how much your situational awareness sucks when you're drunk."

The voice is dry and familiar, and Jason turns around, half-expecting to come face to face with Red Robin crouched in the shadows. Instead, Tim Drake is several feet away, dressed casually and leaning against a sports car that has no business idling on the streets of Burnley.

Jason didn't hear him pull up, which means he's been here a while—and Jason didn't notice him.

_Need to sober up _now.

"The hell are you doin' here, Drake?" he snarls to cover up his obvious impaired reactions.

"It's the 27th," the younger man says, slow and careful. "I'm keeping an eye on you."

_Of course, _he_ knows what day it is…_

Jason bares his teeth. "In case I do something crazy? Decide to go on a rampage?"

"In case you needed a ride home or someone to talk to or just make sure you don't choke on your own vomit," Drake retorts.

"Aren't you the little do-gooder. How'd you even find me?"

"Roy Harper called me out of the blue. He told me someone should check in on you, and he figured for some reason I'm the best candidate to look in on you." He shrugs, brow furrowed. "Don't know why he thinks so, considering our history."

Jason suspects it has to do with Drake being the one who got him the information needed to find and save Roy's ass in Qurac, but he's not about to say so.

"Doesn't answer how you knew I was _here_."

Drake raises an eyebrow at that because, yeah, they both know how he found him.

_Damn stalker._

Jason rolls his eyes. "Whatever. You found me. You saw me. Now step off, I'm tryin' to get a cab."

He turns away and starts heading up the street to the busier intersection.

"Headed to another bar?" Drake wants to know, uncertain, like he's trying not to sound judgemental.

"No, screw you very much, I need to get to Gotham General."

And it's further proof of how much his mind and his reflexes are on a roller coaster tonight because he's actually startled by the hand that falls upon his shoulder. As it turns him around, he instinctively lashes out with a right hook, but Drake dodges it with embarrassing ease.

His eyes are raking over Jason, up-and-down, re-assessing. "You hurt?"

He's fishing, Jason thinks; none of them have gone to the hospital for an injury that wasn't faked in years, least of all Bruce Wayne's legally dead ex-son. Perhaps that's why he's able to detect the genuine concern in the bland question. It's not laid on as thickly as Dick might do or tinged with the hint of judgment and self-recrimination from Bruce.

Maybe that's why he finds himself admitting, "Someone I know might be."

The younger man nods, understanding; some of the intentness leaves his face.

"I could give you a ride," he offers, nodding his head at the car. "Get you there faster than a cab could."

It's on the tip of Jason's tongue to refuse before he remembers he has no cash.

He glances back at the bar once more, wondering if it's the better option to "haggle" with the barkeep to get his money back. Suspects that will lead to a fight, which if Drake insists on hanging around (which he suspects he will, even if it's just watching him from a distance, the creep) he'll probably intervene in and—

_This is getting too complicated._

"Fine," he sighs, at last, earning a blink of surprise from Drake.

_No kidding. I'm surprised, too._

Still, if there's anything going down at the hospital, if this is a trap or something, and Jason needs to ensure Isabel gets out alright, however much he is off his game right now, having Red Robin backing him up wouldn't be the worst thing ever.

It's not like they've never worked together before, or kicked ass doing it.

Jason course-corrects once more, heading for the car. Still, he can't help making a comment, just to show how much he'd rather not be doing this. "But if we're doin' this chauffeuring thing, you're gonna keep your mouth shut about it. And fork over whatever caffeine I know you have in that shitbox of yours."

Drake is the one who bares his teeth this time, a sharp, cold smile that Jason suspects is the last thing his enemies ever see before he knocks them out. "Call my car a shitbox again, and you can walk."

⁂

Somehow, Drake maneuvers through the city without getting a single red light and without going over the speed limit. It wouldn't surprise Jason if he's jerry-rigged some sort of portable device to alter traffic routes, but he doesn't have the interest to find out. Instead, he finds himself hoping he's gotten all this wrong—that it's another attack, someone using Isabel to get to him, like what the Joker did—

And then he hates himself for thinking that, because the Joker is always the worst-case scenario, and as thrown as Jason is by his growing paranoia, nothing warrants dealing with that lunatic.

So, he stews in silence, choking down two disgusting energy drinks as fast as he can to try to shake free of his alcoholic buzz. To his credit, Drake doesn't ask him any questions the whole time, though, from the way his eyes keep cutting to him, he wants to. It's more restraint than Jason would get from the other Bats, he thinks.

They arrive at the hospital, pulling up right in front of the emergency entrance beside the ambulance bay.

"Do you need backup?" Drake asks as Jason he swings himself out of the car, somewhat steadier on his feet.

"No. This ain't somethin' I need a partner on," he replies. "Thanks for the ride and all but buzz off."

"Got it," Drake says, shifting gears. "Circle the block a few times, just in case."

He pulls away before Jason can argue with him, the sudden movement causing the car door to slam before Jason can close it.

He scowls after him.

_Smart-ass. _

Though, now that Jason's actually at the hospital, the idea of having Red Robin as back-up is a little more palatable.

He shifts, appreciating the comforting weight of his guns in their shoulder holsters—insurance for the possibility that this is all a trap—and then strides through the emergency doors, looking for the reception area or equivalent since he doesn't have the tolerance to search any directories any time soon. By some miracle, there's no line of people requiring triage just then, and Jason presents himself to the harried-looking young man at the counter.

"I'm lookin' for a patient," he says without preamble. "Isabel Ardila. I got a call from a Dr. Kerry?"

"Kerry…" the man repeats wearily, types something into the computer and says, "That's Obstetrics. Take the elevator down the hall, maternity ward is on the third floor."

Maternity ward.

The words echo over and over in his head, each repetition making the pit in his stomach grow.

_Don't know for sure. It could just be a coincidence._

He swallows.

He knows as well as anyone trained Batman that there is no such thing as coincidence.

Numbness and queasiness that has nothing to do with alcohol bleed into him.

The journey to the elevator and upstairs pass in a blur of half-formed thoughts and impressions. His heart seems to be beating a lot louder than it usually does. No sign of trouble that he can see, none of the warning signals that there's something untoward afoot here.

Nothing warning him of imminent danger.

Perhaps that's what makes him the most uneasy.

Before he knows it, he's standing in front of another reception area, asking another nurse, or receptionist or whatever she is, for Dr. Kerry.

"I'm here for Isabel Ardila," he repeats, barely hearing himself above the rushing in his ears. "Where's her room? I'm her…uh…husband."

Another flick of a hand across a tablet and the woman's face goes carefully and deliberately blank.

_Shit_. _Even someone without training can tell that means bad news._

"Someone will be with you in a moment, sir," she says, going for sympathetic.

He barely has time to go through the half-dozen possible scenarios in his head before a lanky man with thick-rim glasses in a white coat over scrubs approaches.

"I'm Dr. Kerry," the man says when he arrives. As if Jason couldn't guess. "I was told you are Ms. Ardila's husband?"

"Ex," Jason lies automatically, and it comes out as a croak. "It's been almost a year."

"Ah." His expression flickers with understanding but remains grim. "I wasn't sure. Considering you weren't present when she was admitted, and she didn't mention you beyond putting your name down as her next of kin."

"I'm…just as confused as you are."

_Probably more._

Kerry's expression is sympathetic but guarded. "I'm sorry. I take it your situation was not traditional."

"No. She was…we were…," Jason says, and then shakes his head in frustration. "Listen, do we need to rehash my personal life, or are you gonna take me to see her?"

Kerry stiffens, and then sighs.

"I'm afraid that will have to wait a moment, Mr. Ardila. In fact, I think you may wish to sit down."

He gestures to the wall of uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs.

"No," Jason replies. "I've gotten enough bad news in my life to know what that means, so just spit it out."

"Very well. Then I'm sorry to have to tell you, but she died about an hour ago."

Jason hears the words, reads the shape of the other man's mouth as he says them, and yet they don't penetrate.

He's no stranger to death or loss, but this somehow…

_She got out. We went separate ways, she found someone else, she had a _life_. She can't be…goddamn it, she was _normal_! _

"—surprisingly quick labor…placental abruption…started hemorrhaging…no way to get the bleeding under control…one in a hundred cases—"

He barely hears any of it.

Jason could understand if it was one of the many associates he's had over the years—his line of work, death is always a risk. People who team up with him know that—Kori and Roy and any or every Bat and…and everyone he has ever worked with. Death is just part of the gig. Going out in a blaze of glory is expected.

Sometimes literal even.

Which is perhaps why it's such a shock to hear it's happened to someone like Isabel. Someone normal, someone not _in_ the life, except for when he selfishly pulled her into it.

"—can understand the shock this must be. I'm so very sorry."

"That's…it wasn't your fault," Jason says, only vaguely aware that he's doing it.

"The baby, on the other hand, is perfectly healthy."

His gut clenches like he's been punched.

"Baby."

Before, it was just a suspicion. A worry. But that word—_baby_—it's solid, it's real.

"Yes. She's doing well, despite the circumstances."

_She. There's a baby. It's a 'she'. _

Jason's thoughts are refusing to connect properly for some reason, and it bothers him. He's taken on entire squadrons of men when he was concussed and barely able to see straight. Fought back the side-effects of the Lazarus Pit, held his own against various members of the All-Caste when under the influence of their psychotropic, hallucination inducing herbal concoctions.

In all those cases he could _think _through his situation.

But he can't now.

"I'm not sure I should be offering congratulations, though," the doctor admits. "From the expression on your face, you weren't aware she was pregnant."

"I wasn't."

"The contact information we had for you…it was in the forms she signed upon admittance. She named you as the father."

Jason stares blankly again.

He's been expecting those words since listening to the message, and yet they still don't seem entirely real to him.

"Mr. Ardila?"

"I…" Jason swallows, forces his brain to get back in gear. "Look. Isabel and me, we haven't been together for a while." Nine months, a while, and for a reason at that. "So…it _could_ be mine. But it probably isn't. She was with another guy. I don't even know his name."

"I see." Kerry's brow wrinkles. "That complicates matters. Ms. Ardila didn't provide any other contact information for anyone else. I'm afraid before she could finish the contact forms she was in very active labor."

Jason thinks back to every conversation he and Isabel had, trying to think if there was anything that can help here. He knows her parents are dead, that she never had any siblings; she has family in Columbia, but they're cousins she said she never even met.

"…Other than you, at the moment, this child has no family. And if you don't intend to take guardianship of her, a social worker will need to be contacted to handle the case."

Jason tenses.

"Social worker," he repeats. "You mean _foster care_."

He has sudden flashbacks to angry yelling and a belt across his back, always being hungry and cold and unable to sleep for wondering if _tonight_ would be the night the latest piece of trash foster father decided to slip into his room and pay him a _visit_.

Kerry must detect the distaste in his words, though not the exact reason behind it, because he says cautiously, "I assure you, it's a valid option, and in her best interest. Babies—infants especially—have a high rate of being placed. If that's the option you choose, she likely wouldn't spend much time there."

Jason doesn't know what to say to that, thoughts still whirling. He remembers being taken away from Wayne manor, spending weeks in a spartan bedroom in Gotham's Child Welfare Bureau—

_It's not the same. This isn't the same situation; this is totally different._

So why is he freezing up and unable to make a decision right now?

The doctor is watching him, expectant, and yet Jason's tongue feels rooted to the roof of his mouth.

"Surely before that becomes an option, a paternity test might be an idea."

Jason closes his eyes at the speaker's words.

He doesn't even need to turn around. Of course Drake didn't listen to him; of course, he's standing right behind Jason.

_Probably has been for a while. _

Dr. Kerry appears startled.

"M-Mr. Wayne?"

"_Drake_-Wayne," the younger man corrects, striding forward until he is standing beside Jason. He doesn't look at him, attention fully on the doctor. His expression is mild, but jaw set and eyes calculating. "I've been emancipated for a while."

The doctor visibly recovers himself. "I...yes. However, this isn't exactly your—"

"Business?" Drake interjects smoothly. "I'm afraid it is since I'm his partner."

"_Partner_?"

The slight bulging of the man's eyes might make Jason laugh if Drake's words didn't penetrate his mental fog. He knows the other man means 'partner' in a totally different sense from what the doctor obviously infers from it. Any other day it would be a joke—hell, he might even play along with it, depending on his mood, drag out the joke to see how annoyed the kid could get—

"Great pains have been taken to keep that quiet," Drake goes on, warning in his voice.

_As in, 'don't go outing Tim Drake-Wayne to the press if you ever want to see funding to this place ever again'. _

There'd that absurd temptation to laugh, again.

"Of course. Naturally, patient privacy is paramount. But you understand that _legally_, right now the only one with a say in the matter is Mr. Ardila, and—"

"And whatever his decision, we need all the facts," Drake continues in a bizarrely reasonable voice. "He'll submit to a paternity test, and I'll expect it to be done as soon as possible."

"Yes, of course, it can be rushed if that's what you—"

"No."

The doctor and Drake glance at him.

"No," Jason repeats dimly. "No rushin' it. I can wait like a normal person."

"A standard paternity test takes two to three days," Kerry says, nervous. "If you want to know as soon as possible—"

"Other people need their tests done more than I do—stuff that can save people's lives," Jason replies. With effort, he turns to face Drake. "And besides, I don't need any of this on the record so _your_ nosy-ass family finds out about before…before I process this."

He doesn't really need to raise an eyebrow to communicate what he really means; Drake knows better than any of the others.

The younger man turns thoughtful for a beat, and after several seconds, nods.

"You're right," he allows. Then he turns to Dr. Kerry, who has been watching the interchange with the discomfort of someone watching a marital squabble. "We'll wait for the results then. In the meantime, we should see the baby."

Kerry blinks. "What?"

"What?" Jason echoes.

And Drake, polished as ever, offers the doctor a weary yet charming smile that has to have been perfected over years of training. "She just lost her mother, and as uncertain as the situation is until we know different, Jason is her father." Jason almost swallows his tongue at those words. "I read somewhere that it's important for babies to be held, especially so soon after birth."

Kerry appears a little shell-shocked. "I'll…I'll have one of the nurses escort you, then."

"Thank you. We'll wait here. I think we're going to need a moment if you don't mind."

"No, of course. I understand. It won't take long."

They watch him hurry away.

Jason immediately rounds on Drake.

"What are you doin'?" he hisses, panicked. "Why the hell did you even come in here, I told you to go!"

"Since when do I listen to you?" Drake counters, fiddling with something beneath the sleeve of his expensive-looking jacket. "You spent the whole drive looking like you were headed to your own execution. You forget I've been around after you've died, and it's not pretty."

"Somethin' else is about to not be pretty, and it's your face," Jason grouses.

"Threaten me or not, I'm trying to help you figure this out without having to wait two days."

"I said—"

"I know what you said. And I have DNA sequencing tech built into my wrist computer," Drake tells him, tapping the spot beneath his jacket. "Totally secure system, direct feed to my computer at the Nest, so no other Bats involved, and we can know in an hour. I just need to get close enough to the baby for a cheek swab or hair sample." He cocks his head to one side, challenging. "So, are you coming?"

⁂

A nurse leads them to an empty waiting room with chairs and a table, seemingly unfazed by the situation that has reduced Jason to almost the same mindless shell as he was before taking a dip in the Lazarus Pit.

"Normally we do visits with the mother and family in the hospital room, but in this case…" she trails off, sympathetic. "I'm very sorry."

"Yeah," Jason thinks he says, looking around the spartan décor.

"I'll be back with your daughter," she tells him and leaves.

Jason opens his mouth to protest that word, but it dies on his lips. Somehow it seems dickish to proclaim it's not his daughter. He's not sure he could form the sentence right now, anyway. It means acknowledging the existence of a tiny human who may or may not be his—

"It's transference."

Jason blinks, looking over at Drake.

"The nurse," the younger man says. "Calling the baby your daughter. She's worried and hoping you'll form an emotional attachment whether the child's yours or not. You have no obligation to do that just now."

Jason grits his teeth. "And you're tellin' me this why?"

"Because I know what self-flagellation looks like. You _can_ freak out, you know. I won't tell anyone."

"And you can be less of a weirdo. How the hell are you so…" Jason fumbles the word, and then furiously gestures up and down. "This."

"It's a tense situation and you're panicked enough for the two of us."

"I'm not panicked."

"Jason, you're completely tense right now, I can almost _see_ how fast your pulse is going and you can barely think straight enough to give answers to simple questions," Drake tells him. "Obviously you're suffering from some sort of emotional shock."

"Shock my ass," Jason replies automatically. "I've been in _literal_ warzones. I don't do shock."

"Have you ever learned you might possibly be a father in those warzones?" Jason's stomach lurches at the word, blood draining from his face; Drake obviously sees it, because he nods as if satisfied. "There you go. Completely different situation. Look, just take a deep breath and—"

"_I know how to calm down!" _Jason growls. "Now stop _managin'_ me and—"

"Here we are!"

They both whirl around as the nurse from earlier reappears, this time wheeling a see-through plastic crib into the room. Inside is a vaguely wriggling lump in pink blankets and cap. There's a label at the edge of the crib, with the words _Baby Ardila_ neatly printed.

A rushing noise, starting like the hiss of static and turning into the dull road of a waterfall fills Jason's head.

That's a baby, right there.

Possibly his baby.

Isabel's gone. Dead. Dead in childbirth.

Which means if this is his kid, he's responsible for Isabel's death. And if that's the case…what the hell is he supposed to do? He's not supposed to have this—was never supposed to have anything like this—he's going to ruin all of this, every second and minute he's in this room around this kid, it's like radiation, growing worse the longer exposed—

"Mr. Ardila?"

Jason blinks, looks up, notices the nurse is addressing him—has probably been doing so for a while, judging by the uncertainty in her eyes. She's holding the baby, and he didn't even notice her reach into the crib.

"It's still sinking in," Drake says, explaining and covering for him at the same time. Jason swallows, shaking off the lingering invasive thoughts. "She asked if you want to hold her."

_Not really._

He wonders if his thoughts show on his face, because the nurse hesitates, looking a bit uneasy about handing over the swaddled infant. Compared to the tiny bundle, Jason is a giant—over six feet, nothing but muscle and scars, clad in faded leather that may or may not have dried blood on it somewhere and no doubt smelling like a bar's back alley.

His eyes shoot to Drake who, for the first time tonight—looks just as much at a loss as him. All confidence and strategizing are gone, and he's looking at the pink-wrapped bundle with the same apprehension as a bomb.

_Must be just as out of his element holding a baby as I am._

Maybe more so.

Jason at least has distant memories of doing so. As a kid in Crime Alley, neighbors were forced to rely on each other. If one of the women doing laundry or selling themselves on the corner told you to mind a baby, you minded the baby or you got a slap upside the head.

But that was a long, long time ago. Not as long as for Drake, who likely never had to do that, but long enough that Jason feels like he's forgotten what hands are.

"Maybe I shouldn't..." he trails off. "Since she might not be…you know…"

"Yours?" the nurse says, and then turns red, as if she didn't mean to say that. "It wouldn't hurt, you know. She…her mother didn't get to hold her at all. So even if she's not yours, you knew her mother. That's still more of a connection than anyone else has to her."

It sounds like spurious logic. Still—

"Okay," he hears himself say, possibly damning himself with just the one word.

The nurse motions for him to take the chair beside the crib—it's comically small beneath his frame and he expects the cheap plastic to give, but it never does. Instantly he wants to get back up—eyes flit to the door, the windows, ceiling panels, cataloging possible exits.

Then, the nurse settles the baby into his arms, gently coaching him how to hold her head properly and support the rest of her on his arms.

Jason swallows thickly, trying to become accustomed to the sensation of the slight weight—hell, he's held heavier guns—and immediately has the irrational fear that he's going to drop or break the infant.

She is red and wrinkled, and hardly even looks like a baby. He's seen them that small before, sure. As Robin and as Red Hood, he's been thrown into situations where he had to get new parents to safety. Hell, he's even had to help pregnant women with an emergency delivery on occasion.

(Not sure which was more nerve-wracking, when he was a gawky teenaged boy that still fumbled shaving, or the heavy-handed vigilante more suited to holding an AK-47 in his hands than an infant body.)

She's also very, very small.

"Are they supposed to be that tiny?" Drake asks, voicing Jason's question as he peeks over his shoulder. His eyes are wide and a little awed, and Jason can't recall ever seeing that particular expression on the kid's face.

"Five pounds, fourteen ounces—she's _just_ within the right weight percentile for her gestational age," the nurse replies.

She says something else after that, but Jason mostly tunes her out. He probably couldn't even process it even if he was firing on all cylinders.

He finds his eyes roving over the tiny face, trying to figure out if she looks like him or not. He wants to cite the fact he can't recognize any of himself in her features as proof she _can't_ be his, but the fact is…she barely has any identifying features. Nudging the tiny pink cap she's wearing upward, he finds feathery strands of indistinct color—could be strawberry blond, like Isabel; could be red, like his natural color when he isn't dyeing it.

_Fifty-fifty chance, really._

Her eyes are scrunched shut in sleep, tiny eyebrows—does she even have eyebrows? —drawn together and pink mouth puckered in a frown. Overall, she looks completely uncomfortable.

He waits to feel any kind of affection or connection to the infant, some sort of primal magnetism that he should feel if this is his kid, but there's nothing.

Only the persistent instinct to make a run for it.

"I'll give you some time," she says with a small smile. "There may be a social worker by in the next hour or so. Since we won't know anything until the tests come back, nothing will be decided tonight, but it wouldn't hurt to familiarize yourself with whoever is handling the case, even if it is just for the short-term."

"Thank you," Drake says politely.

"And if you need anything, the call button to the nurse's station is right there."

And she departs.

Jason and Drake stare at each other without speaking for a while. The noise is broken only when the pink bundle in Jason's arms begins to wriggle and his back goes rigid.

He looks back down at the tiny human in his hands and abruptly realizes he has never been more terrified in his life.

Even in that warehouse, being savagely beaten—he knew what was going to happen. Either he was going to be saved by Batman at the last minute, or he would die. Either way, the pain would end.

It occurs to him that the infant he's holding has the potential to cause a whole other kind of pain.

"How do I put her down?" he asks through a dry mouth. "She didn't…she didn't show how to put her down—"

"Why are you asking me?" Drake asks, an octave higher than normal.

"Because you—"

He cuts off since he has no idea how he was going to answer that. His hands feel too clumsy, his arms too big and—god, he could crush her.

"Okay," Drake says after a deep breath. "Okay, let's try…" And he approaches slowly, eyeing Jason like he's approaching a wild dog. Jason normally wouldn't blame him, considering their not-so-great past together, but at the moment, his replacement's the only one in his corner.

Somehow, thin but strong fingers slide between the space of leather jacket and blanket, maneuvering so that the baby's head is supported, and between the two of them they get the infant back in the crib. Jason doesn't miss Drake slipping a sample kit out of his pocket and gently taking a cheek swab.

The baby only scrunches up her face and mewls in distaste.

Which is good.

Not crying is good.

He thinks.

Unless it's a sign that something's wrong.

Aren't healthy babies supposed to cry? She doesn't look like there's anything wrong with her, but how would he know the difference?

_I'm not qualified for this._

Drake continues doing whatever it is he needs to do for his test. He doesn't ask Jason for a blood sample, probably has a file on in somewhere in that crafty bit of tech on his arm. Normally Jason would make a snide comment about that but can't summon the energy for it.

For a long time, he and Drake stand on either side of the crib, tense and neither really knowing how to break the oppressive silence. Staring down at the little pink creature as if she might suddenly rear up and attack.

It would be funny if it all weren't so terrifying.

Jason hasn't smoked in almost five years, but just then all he wants it a cigarette. Or a pack.

More time must pass than he expected, because eventually there's a staccato beeping from Drake's wrist, and they both startle. Jason watches the other man covertly pull up a holographic screen above his wrist, frowning at the numbers and data blinking at him.

His eyes widen. They're very blue, Jason notices dimly, in the abstract and tired way you notice strange details in the moments before your life irrevocably changes.

When their gazes connect, his face says it all.

Jason's lungs constrict.

"Holy shit," he croaks, because what the hell else is he going to say?

"Holy shit," Drake echoes. "This is…not the result I was expecting."

Jason barks out a bitter laugh and begins to pace, running his fingers through his hair. His throat feels like it's closing over because up until that moment, he really didn't think it was real.

Isabel dead, he could believe. Her leaving behind a baby, also believable.

But that the baby is _his_?

That Jason Todd—the clan fuck-up who never entertained the idea of ever being a father except for maybe a lifetime ago when he also dreamed impossible things like growing up to become Batman—has a kid?

"No!" he rasps, whirling around to face Drake. "No, this is _not_ fair! I'm careful—I've always _been_ careful! This is the sort of thing that happens to Bruce. Or maybe Dick, because who knows where he's been—hell, even _Alfred_ had a kid he didn't know about."

"This sort of thing happens more than you think. Statistically speaking—"

"It doesn't happen to _me_!" Jason hisses back.

Especially since he's always made it a point to only sleep with people he knew were species incompatible, didn't have the body parts necessary to _get_ pregnant or who were on birth control. The few times he'd been with Isabel, she's even laughed at him because of how intent he was to stop and put on a condom.

"This is…" Jason begins, fighting down the mounting urge to throw up. "It's too much, I need to—"

"Take a walk," Drake tells him, a commanding note in his voice that is eerily reminiscent of Bruce. "An hour or two somewhere else to clear your head. Or longer, if you need to. I can keep an eye on things here—especially since she's here for a few days anyway while we wait for the blood tests."

The unnecessary blood tests, the ones that will tell them the same thing the Bat tech has already figured out.

"And arrangements will need to be made for Isabel," he continues, then pauses. "If you want me to."

Jason should say no.

He should tell Drake to back off, to let Jason figure this out the way he always figures things out—on his own. That he doesn't trust him or anyone enough to deal with this situation properly.

But the lure of escape is too strong just then, and the hospital room feels like it's closing in on him like a coffin.

He throws one last panicked look at the baby in the crib and then flees the maternity ward.

Jason is not entirely sure he's going to come back.

⁂

Jason only just makes it to the nearest bathroom and upchucks everything he's consumed in the past five and a half hours.

He is left with only the same sweaty, stomach-warbling panic he remembers from the most frightening moments in his life.

Finding his mother's limp body in a piss-stained back alley. Making a run from Batman and being unable to escape that heavy, gauntleted hand clamping down on his shoulder. The first time he jumped off Wayne Tower with only a reinforced grapple line to hold him up. The first time he got shot. The first time he watched Bruce break down in front of him.

His first and last moments looking at a too-wide smile and the gleam of a bloodied crowbar. A timer ticking down to zero.

It doesn't make sense.

In the vast procession of frightening and dangerous screw-ups that litter his life, the news that he has a kid shouldn't fill him with so much dread. But right now, he feels paralyzed and can't even sort through his spinning thoughts long enough to figure out why.

Jason wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stumbles out of the bathroom, ignoring wary looks sent his way by several hospital staff. His stomach is still flip-flopping, but he doesn't think he's doing to puke again, so now…he just needs to move.

Once he escapes the maternity ward, he has no idea where he's supposed to do next. The largest part of himself wants to leave the hospital—and the situation—as fast as possible and not look back.

It's what he does, isn't it? Get into a jam, leave a trail of fire and debris, and then move on to the next job so as the avoid the consequences as long as possible.

_But that's just it, isn't it? Can't avoid consequences forever_.

He planned an entire vengeful crusade around _that_ premise and as for himself, he's never been one to try to avoid what's coming to him. It's just usually when he throws himself headlong into complicated situations, he has a pretty accurate idea of what the outcome will look like.

Not this time, though.

This time, his wandering is as aimless as he thoughts, having no direction and no destination in mind. Doors and stairwells and different hospital wards pass him but he barely registers.

_"I'll be back with your daughter."_

Daughter.

This—now—a daughter—a baby: it's too much. Too much information or implication or whatever it is blocking the part of his brain that thinks ahead. There's just too much.

_Sometimes when things get to be too much, you need to take a step back, chum_.

Bruce's voice echoes in his head somewhere, rising above the gibbering panic.

_Most of the time you'll have too little information to go on—but very occasionally, you'll have too much. In either case, there are drawbacks, but you still take the same approach. Focus on one aspect at a time. Move through your process as slowly, methodically as possible. You must have all the facts before you can formulate a cohesive plan of attack._

Jason snorts, shaking his head and the thought away with it.

Because Bruce was _clearly_ slow and methodical when the demon brat appeared on the scene. The way Jason's heard, the kid shows up and the same night he's living at the manor.

_B's biggest problem has always been how quick he is to go down the accidental-kid-acquisition route._

Which makes him about the last person Jason wants to be thinking about right now. Even just thinking about what his reaction would be if he found out about Jason's situation makes his skin crawl. All he needs on top of things is judgement and disappointment the way only Batman can get _just_ right, especially when it comes to Jason.

(Not least of all because Bruce was the one to make him sit through a painful and—what Jason believed, up until now, to be—completely unnecessary talk about safe sex back when Jason met his first girlfriend.)

Except.

As messed up as Bruce and his methods sometimes were, more often than not it's those early lessons that kept Jason alive. Especially after he died.

So…okay.

Facts.

Isabel is dead.

That's a fact.

Something solid, something he can deal with, as shitty as it feels to do so.

Jason knows how to deal with the dead—hell, he _was_ the dead. It doesn't get any closer than that. There's a routine to it, expectations and procedure—

He can start with that.

Destination finally in mind, he sets off.

Hospitals are the same everywhere, really. If you look like you know where you're going and walk with enough confidence in your stride, people don't question you or your presence.

Jason finds the hospital mortuary with relative ease, orchestrates a distraction for the morgue attendant with the same, and heads inside. A cold chill creeps up his spine at the familiar, ever-present lingering stench of formaldehyde. He's had nightmares of that smell ever since he woke up from his coma, and he doesn't know why since he was stone-dead before he went anywhere near a morgue.

He snags the attendant's discarded tablet on his way past the empty desk and scans down the list of names, teeth clenching when he recognizes what he's looking for.

Maria Isabela Ardila, 25. Preliminary cause of death, contingent on full post-mortem: pulmonary abruption.

_So she hasn't been autopsied yet, which means she's not in a drawer. It's only been about two hours…_

Jason ducks into the adjacent lab, glancing at several gurneys with body bags on them. He doesn't even need to check the identifying tags; only one of them contains a body of Isabel's height and build.

He approaches the body bag slowly, is barely aware of his arm reaching out, of carefully unzipping it over her face.

And there she is.

Pale now, no more color in her cheeks, hair limp with dried sweat. Her jaw is slack, expression devoid of the light and spark that drew her to him in the first place.

He'll never see it again.

Jason swallows.

It's not like he was in love with her or anything, but it was a close thing—if given the chance, he might have one day felt for her the way he felt for Essence. The knowledge that he's lost yet another potential human connection is another blow he wasn't expecting today.

"What the hell were you thinkin'?" he murmurs, fists balling.

He's angry, but not at her for being dead. Well, okay, he is a little. Not completely because from what he understands, what killed her is something that could happen to anyone.

No, what he's angry about is the fact she was pregnant and didn't tell him. That she both kept and kept secret the fact she was having _his_ kid, never gave him a chance to know about it or to try to convince her why it would be a bad idea.

And now she's dead and if it hadn't been for him—if he hadn't met her—she'd still be alive right now.

The skin over his knuckles is pulled painfully tight now, and he forces himself to loosen his fist and shake it off. Slowly, he reaches out and lays his palm across Isabel's forehead.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "This is all my fault."

He backs away, threading his fingers through his hair in an effort to keep himself from lashing out with fists.

_This is so messed up. This is so…too much._

And sitting in the morgue is probably not helping.

He paces back and forth a minute longer, before digging into his pocket for his phone. It's time to contact the one person who can usually knock him out of his own head.

Roy has gone through this. Hell, Jason _watched_ him go through it, he was there when Jade told him that he was a father. Roy knows what it's like to have something like this dropped on you out of the blue.

It takes longer than normal to get through, but Roy answers all the same.

"…Jaybird?"

He sounds rough, but not strained in the way Jason would associate with imminent explosions. He can only hope his own voice is a little stronger. It takes a bit, mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he tries to figure out what to say.

"I'm in a mess," he manages. "And I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do."

"Gotham style mess, or alien mess?" Roy asks warily.

"I…have a kid."

There's nothing but the sound of static for several breaths, and then, "…Say again?"

"A kid. A…baby, technically. She's…I just…found out. An hour ago? Seems like longer—"

He's pacing again.

"Whoa, hold on, slow the hell down, what do you mean you have a kid? _How_—?"

"Do I really need to paint a picture?" Jason hisses.

"Nah, I'm good—but shit, Jay, this is—whoa." Pause. "Are you okay?"

It's the first time anyone's out and out asked him. Drake sort of did, but that was buried under the guise of assessing if he was injured.

"Not really," he admits. Then, "Isabel's dead."

"What? No—how is that related to—?"

"She's the mother. Was the mother. She bled out delivering the…"

The baby.

His daughter.

"Shit." Roy groans, exhaling harshly. And again, "_Shit_. Jay. I'm sorry, man. I know things didn't work out, but…she was cool."

"Yeah…" Jason swallows. "Roy, I have no fuckin' clue what I'm supposed to do."

"No kidding. Okay. I hear ya buddy. First of all, take a breath. Or five hundred." Somehow it's less irksome being told to breathe by Roy than his replacement. "This is big. You're allowed to freak out, but not so much where you lose your head, okay? And look at it this way, at least Isabel wasn't an internationally renowned assassin that more often than not wanted to kill you."

Jason coughs out an unexpected, manic chuckle at that.

"Where are you right now?"

"Hospital. Technically, the morgue."

A pained exhale at that. "Isabel, right?"

"Right."

"And the kid?"

"Up in the maternity ward still." Jason pauses. "Drake's keeping an eye on her."

"_Drake_? As in _Tim_ Drake?"

"Don't sound so surprised, you're the one who picked up the damn phone and sent him to babysit me."

"Yeah, but that was before..."

"Before it turned out there was actual babysittin' involved?"

"Right."

Jason swallows back another wave of mounting hysteria.

"He's as weirded out by this as I am, and I don't know how long it's going to be before he tattles to the Bat cavalry. Could really use someone in my corner on this one."

"It sounds to me like you already do," Roy points out, "at least in the short term. I don't see Drake as the narc type, that's more Grayson's thing."

"Yeah, well, the kid's never been in this situation, unless Wayne's PR-team is a lot better at their jobs than I thought."

Roy sighs heavily, in a way that immediately has Jason's shoulders tense.

"You know I'd be there in a second if I could. But right now, I'm kinda…tied up."

Jason frowns. "Literally or metaphorically?"

"Little bit of both?"

"Do you need me to—?"

"No! No, you have your own issues to deal with right now. The kind that trump mine, and your first instinct can't be to leave Gotham in your rear-view instead of dealing with this."

_Why not? _Jason wants to ask but doesn't.

"Look, Jay…" Roy sighs, weary. "This sort of thing…there's nothing I can tell you that to give you an easy answer here. Kids…every kid is different. It's always different, so…you gotta go with your gut. Ain't nothing anyone else can tell you to do. And as messed up as you are right now, it's not about you. It's about what's best for _her_."

Jason nods at this even though Roy can't see him. Maybe if he focusses on that—distances himself from the situation, thinks about the baby like it belongs to someone else. Needs to think about it like some Crime Alley orphan he's rescued and needs to take care of.

Temporarily.

Until he figures it all out.

"Listen, whatever you decide, I'm with you man. Ride or die, even if I'm not there right this second. Soon as I can, I'm there," Roy goes on. "Until then, whatever you do, don't try to go it alone. I know from experience trying to deal with a tiny human on your own is asking for trouble."

Jason inhales slowly, scowling at the sharp smell in the air and forces an exhale. "So don't run Drake off."

"Or try to kill him."

"Again."

"Again."

Jason glances back to Isabel's body on the gurney, stares at the lifeless face that will never smile again. Thinks of the infant upstairs who may or may not look like her, but who is definitely his.

"I have to get back upstairs," he says. "Got some decisions to make."

_And that's putting it lightly…_

He starts to hang up, but then Roy speaks again. "Hey, Jaybird?"

"Yeah?"

"Bouncing baby girl, that's…" his best friend swallows so heavily it's audible across the line. "That's something."

Jason knows he's thinking about Lian.

"Yeah, man, it's…it's definitely _something_."

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!_

_❤️️ = I love this story!_  
_😳 = this was hot!_  
_💐 = thank you for sharing this_  
_🍵 = tea spilled_  
_🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!_  
_🚔 = you're under arrest! the writing's too good!_  
_😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER_  
_😢 = you got me right in the feels_


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, right after Jason leaves, the baby wakes up.

And starts to wail.

Tim freezes, all of his reflexes seemingly dissolved by the unyielding sound that such a tiny creature should _not_ be able to produce.

Whatever Jason said about him being calm, in actuality, he's completely freaked out over this whole baby thing.

Over the whole _Jason's_ baby thing.

This whole situation is just _not_ in his area of expertise, nor does it require any of his previous training. And he can't really see a scenario where, on the infinitesimal chance Jason decides to give up vigilantism and become a stay-at-home-dad, he'd ever ask Tim of all people to babysit.

But then, right now, Jason's not here.

The nurse from earlier returns, offering him a sympathetic look.

"It's about time for her next feeding," she tells him. "Do you want us to take her, or would you like to do it?"

_Take her, please, _Tim wants to say but bites his tongue.

He wasn't talking out of his ass when he acknowledged that babies needed to be held. Human contact is good (even if that wasn't basic medical knowledge, his own semi-neglected childhood can attest to that) and he all but volunteered himself for this to help Jason. He should at least do what he can.

_Holding down the fort apparently includes holding down the baby…_

"If you could just show me…?" he suggests, a sheepish smile pasted on and hopefully hiding his inner unease.

As expected, the woman's expression turns into a mixture of amused and charmed. She chatters, motioning for him to take the chair Jason was sitting in before; Tim sits and lets her arrange the baby in his arms, showing him a light, gentle rocking motion to try to calm her.

"I'll be right back with her formula," the nurse says, though Tim barely hears her over the furious wailing.

He squints down at the scrunched-up face, trying to figure out how he ended up in this situation. Also, what exactly possessed him to call Jason his partner?

_Because it's the first believable thing to come to mind that didn't involve spontaneous resurrections? _

And technically, it's even true. Sometimes.

And he _was_ worried about Jason.

They may not be brothers, but they are family, and with that comes a certain awareness of each other. He knew the minute he saw Jason outside the dive bar that he was freaked out. He decided he would help him then, and he's not about to back out now even if things have become _way_ more complicated than anticipated.

The nurse returns with the bottle of formula, and as soon as she's explained how to properly position and feed the baby—apparently there's more to it than just sticking a synthetic nipple in her mouth and waiting for her to chug—and prevent gas, she vanishes again.

To allow them "bonding" time.

_Not what I thought I'd be doing when I got up this morning…_

Tim's done the baby thing before—sort of. But Steph's daughter was bigger when she was born. Jason's is tiny, and Tim is half expecting her to break into pieces before his eyes. Whatever manufactured confidence he had before, had been in the moment—and mostly for Jason's benefit.

It had been imperative to get the infant out of the other man's arms while he was clearly on the verge of a panic attack. Especially since no one ever knows how a cornered Jason Todd might react.

_Not that I think he'd ever hurt an infant, but he doesn't exactly process shock the way normal people do. It never hurts to have contingencies. _

As he watches the baby guzzle her formula with surprising gusto, Tim finds himself going over a mental list of things that have to be dealt with if they're going to get through life's latest curveball more or less intact.

_Paperwork for the baby. Arrangements for the mother's body._

Isabel Ardila.

He knows her name only from the files as the woman Jason was seeing prior to the Joker's last assault on the bats. She was caught in the crossfire, forcibly dosed with heroin to play on Jason's past traumas, and following her recovery, ended things with Jason.

Or Jason ended things with her, Tim's not sure. He never asked and he doesn't intend to.

However it ended, clearly there was enough estrangement that she didn't bother to tell Jason he was a father. It's a decision he can, unfortunately, imagine the reasons for, even if he's not sure he agrees with them.

_Not like we can do anything about that decision now, though. _

The baby slowly goes limp in his arms, and Tim has a brief moment of irrational, paranoid panic—has she been drugged?—before realizing she's just fallen back asleep.

"Right. Because that's a normal thing that babies do," he murmurs to himself, and carefully maneuvers himself over to her crib to put her down on her stomach, like he's seen in countless television commercials.

Then, uncertain, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and does a quick internet search, balking at the sheer amount of SIDS related articles, and scoops her up again to reposition her on her back.

_Should probably tell Jason about that when he gets back…_

Assuming Jason comes back.

Or even wants his help.

Which, Tim decides, he'll offer anyway. Though that may mean playing to his strengths more than anything, preparing for every eventuality and having a series of back-up plans.

He highly doubts Jason's thinking of any of that right now.

Phone in hand Tim begins typing quickly, pulling up tabs in his search engines for whatever concern pops into his head as he reads.

He suspects Jason is too uneasy about the whole situation to want to keep the baby, so Tim's going to have to research adoption agencies through official and unofficial channels.

_Open or closed, not sure what option he'd go with. _

And then, there's always the small chance he _will_ keep his child. It's a possibility that seems as likely as Bruce's sudden predilection for joining the Russian ballet, but stranger things have happened in the family.

He skims through several forums and advice blogs for how to care for a newborn, makes a list of important supplies they might need in the immediate future and forwards it to Tam.

It's several minutes later that his phone chimes, notifying him of her list of replies.

_\- Why the hell did you send me a list with diapers?_

_\- Is this for a baby?_

_\- Omg, did you kidnap a baby?_

_\- Is that a thing that happens?_

_-First ninjas, now baby-napping? _

Tim sighs and rolls his eyes. Normally he'd find her bemused and slightly-panicked responses a little amusing, but he doesn't have the energy to go into details, even if Jason hadn't sworn him to secrecy.

_-A friend of mine has an emergency. Drop everything off at my apartment, please. _

There's a beat, another chime, but Tim doesn't get a chance to read the message as his screen suddenly switches. The air is filled with a generic ringtone that Tim hastily mutes, eyes flicking to the baby and back to his screen. The number flashes 'Unknown', but Tim recognizes the number from earlier that day.

He stands, wanders away from the crib to answer quietly. "What is it, Harper?"

"Jay called me," the older man says without preamble. "Told me everything. About the kid, about Isabel."

"Yeah," Tim agrees quietly. "I'd say shock is an understatement."

"No shit." He sighs. "Listen, I talked him down as much as I could, but the rest is on you."

"What? Why?"

"He says you've been helping him."

"For now, until someone more qualified comes along," Tim retorts, implication heavy in his voice.

Roy catches it because he lets out a bitter laugh. "Sorry to burst your bubble, bird boy, but that ain't gonna be me."

"What are you talking about? You've been in _literally_ the same situation."

"And I can't right now. So I need you to be there for him."

"He needs his friend," Tim argues. "And he's made very clear I'm not one of those."

"Then you'd better become one fast, because I can't."

"Why the—" Tim's eyes flick to the infant, and he can't help giving in to the impulse to censor himself, lowering his voice, "—_heck_ not?"

"Because I'm in a bad place right now," Roy snaps. "I'm not in a good way for being around a kid, okay? I…" He pauses, like he's weighing something, and then exhales. "I…fell off the wagon again."

Tim's stomach sinks.

"Roy…"

"Don't tell Jaybird," Roy orders. "I just…I need to sort myself out before I can be any kind of help for him. I show up there now, I'll just add to his problems."

"But—"

"This is you being tagged in, okay? Don't fuck it up."

There's a harsh click in Tim's ear, leaving him listening incomprehensively to the dial tone for several seconds.

"Are you…_are you kidding me_?!" he hisses after a moment, only just refraining from throwing his phone across the room in frustration.

He didn't realize before Roy's call just how much he was counting on someone else to step in and take over in the emotional support department.

_I'm not cut out for this. This sort of thing…it should be Dick. Or Alfred. _

He spends the next hour once again reviewing what he did to get roped into all this.

When Jason comes back—and something inside Tim unknots in relief that he _did_ come back—he's as ashen-faced as before. This time, though, there's a determined set to his shoulders.

They stand and stare at each other in silence for a good five minutes before Tim realizes Jason's waiting for him to speak first.

_Right. Tagged in. Let's do this. Ease into it._

"So, what are you going to do?"

Tim winces.

_Yeah, that wasn't exactly subtle. _

Jason doesn't seem to notice the awkward, though.

"No idea," he replies heavily, leaning against the doorjamb and letting his head _thunk_ lightly against it.

"Social Services is obviously an option."

"No way in hell," Jason snaps, straightening up and looking fierce. "I don't trust them. And you can't tell me with all the Wayne resources you've got access to, we can't find something better."

Tim expected that. He might not have had the exact same harrowing experiences with foster care as Jason did, but his very brief stint left him with a hint of that same disillusion with the system.

_It's not something I'd wish on any kid, least of all Jason's. _

"We can look into it. Organize the best possible adoption scenario without dealing with Social Services. There are actually a lot of couples in the community who would be willing to adopt."

"No. This kid isn't growing up anywhere near capes or masks or stuff like that."

_Okay, that's understandable. It also makes it less likely he intends to keep her. _

"Whatever we do, it will take some time," Tim cautions. "Placing a child with a family isn't going to be as easy as sticking someone in Witness Protection."

Jason snorts and shakes his head. "Only you would think that's _easy_."

"So, now that that's figured out—what are you going to do once the tests are finished?" Tim asks, focussing on the practical. "I don't find a family within the next day or so, you're going to need to bring her somewhere. Assuming you're adamant about keeping the rest of the Family out of this?" That receives only narrowed eyes in response. "Stupid question, sorry. But she's going to have to stay somewhere until then. I wouldn't recommend leaving her here at the hospital, for a number of reasons."

Jasons frowns, thoughtful. Then,

"I'll keep her for now," he decides with a heaviness that Tim suspects is caused more by fear than dislike of children. "Until we find a better place for her. Some family that won't mind doing this in private."

"Okay," Tim nods. "On that note—where exactly will you take her?"

Jason falters, looking like he's not entirely sure what to say to that.

"I…my safehouses aren't exactly babyproofed."

"I don't think that's an issue until they start crawling," Tim replies, trying for humor but the very idea sparks another flash of panic in Jason's eyes. He's looking at Tim now with something dangerously close to expectance, and a realization hits Tim.

_He doesn't want to be alone with this._

And it's the fact he's never seen Jason look so vulnerable that sparks a truly terrible idea.

_I'm _so_ going to regret this._

"I have a spare bedroom," he offers, earning a sharp glance from Jason. "Just until you wrap your head around this and figure out the next move."

He half expects Jason to scoff, or laugh in his face or say something insulting.

It's decidedly worrying when the only thing that happens is Jason's shoulders slump and he nods.

Jason's shoulders slump, and he nods.

"Yeah. Yeah, that would be…good. Thanks, Drake." He pauses, considering something, and then adds, "Tim."

⁂

Technically, they can both leave.

It's not as if they can take the baby from the hospital until the paternity test results officially come back. Which is probably a good thing, because Jason's clearly going to need a little more time for all this to settle, judging by the way he's sitting in front of the baby's crib. He's watching her like he's waiting for a sign this is all hallucination.

_If his brain doesn't move past 'reaction mode' soon, there's going to be a problem. _

Especially since the longer they hang around the hospital, the more likely they are to attract attention, baby or not. Someone's bound to notice Tim Drake-Wayne wandering about, and that's usually enough to get Vicki Vale's attention; she's never really given up on trying to out him as Red Robin, even after a year of moving about on crutches.

_Add an apparently secret relationship and baby to the mix...actually, that's an important point. _

"Short-term or long-term, we can't just keep calling her 'the baby'," he points out, once more breaking the heavy silence while firing off a round of texts to his team.

_'Won't be back for a few days. Maybe a week or so. Bat drama.'_

"I'm not naming her," Jason says immediately. "That's how you get attached."

"I think that only applies to pets," Tim answers dryly. "Besides, legally, you can't leave the hospital with her unless she has a name."

"Legally, I'm dead and this whole situation shouldn't be happening." Jason scowls, and when Tim raises an eyebrow at him, he huffs in reluctant agreement. "Fine. Any ideas?"

"You're asking me?"

He tries not to let his amazement show through the surprise. Tim can't remember the last time—if ever—that Jason has sought his opinion on anything. He wishes this was a topic he knew more about, so he wasn't floundering for an answer.

He spares a glance at his phone (Cassie has texted back, _'when isn't there bat drama?_) and then offers, "We could call her…April. Since it's, you know, _April_."

"Fuck no," is the immediate response. "That's so cliché I'm ashamed of you. And considering everything I know about you, it takes a lot to do that."

"Well, it's nice to see your winning personality is making a comeback. Must be the shock finally wearing off."

"There's no wearing off when it comes to this kind of shock."

"Well, if you're able to make snarky comments about name ideas, you're not in enough shock to—"

He is interrupted by a sudden commotion outside the receiving room. It sounds like the nurse from earlier, arguing with someone—another woman, sounds like—and it's getting louder and closer.

"—Ma'am, you can't go in there—"

"Just watch me!"

"—it's family only—"

"I _am_ family, I don't care what—"

"—already called security—"

Jason tenses immediately, hand reaching for the sidearm Tim's been pretending he doesn't know about, and Tim automatically puts himself between the baby and the door. The infant in question merely shifts and frowns in her sleep but doesn't wake.

A second later, the door swings open—not hard enough to hit the stopper, thankfully—and an unknown woman enters, tailed by the frustrated looking nurse.

The stranger is petite and young, maybe late twenties or early thirties, and wears a hijab; her eyes are snapping with anger and desperation, fists clenched as she takes in the scene. When her attention falls upon Tim, she appears to startle, the way her ire falters, but it's back in an instant.

"Why is _he_ permitted to be here?" she demands of the nurse. There's a hint of an accent in her words, familiar to him only because Damian has a similar way of speaking. She also seems to be overenunciating. "You let a stranger in here just because his family owns the hospital and half the city?"

"That's really none of your business, ma'am if you could just—"

"No, I can't _just_."

"What's going on here?" Tim asks coolly, motioning for the nurse to take a step back from the stranger. "And keep it down, the baby's sleeping."

Some of the wind is taken from the woman's sails, eyes flicking to the crib. A fresh flicker of pain pinches her expression, and with an effort she meets Tim's gaze.

"What's going on here is that you are not the baby's father and should not be here," she replies, quieter but with no less venom. "You barely look old enough to shave, let alone father a child."

Tim bristles, and there's a snort that draws their attention, and they look at Jason, who has straightened up and is no longer reaching for his gun. "You're right about that, at least. Not too sure about everything else."

The stranger purses her lips, eyes roving over the larger man, and then crosses her arms. "You, however, are exactly her type. You are Jason then."

What.

"You know me."

"I know _of_ you. That you existed. Isabel would mention you on occasion."

Tim perks up at this; finally, they might be able to get some answers.

"You knew Isabel," Jason says, all his attention on the woman. "Who are you?"

Tim's already got his phone out, thumb hovering and ready to key in the woman's information to assess her threat level. She looks like a civilian, but he's had too many encounters with the League to leave this sort of thing to chance.

"My name is Safiya Amin. I am Isabel's…I _was_ Isabel's friend" She swallows as if around a lump in her throat. "I live next door to her. And I'm the one who's been there for her this whole time. I even drove her here while you, you deadbeat, were nowhere to be found."

That's directed at Jason, the woman's anger returning. However, now that the surprise of her arrival is fading, it's less intimidating. It has also, seemingly, roused Jason, who is glaring at her and taking a step away from the crib.

"I can't exactly be around if I don't know I'm supposed to be," he snaps back as Tim's search for the woman's information starts up. "I've known about this for a grand total of two hours."

The woman—Safiya—seems to have a retort on her tongue, but as his words sink in, she pauses, confused. There's some rapid thinking going on behind her eyes, and then her lips part in realization.

"She didn't tell you."

"No shit."

The woman's shoulders slump. "I told her she needed to tell you. That she shouldn't be doing this on her own. I can only do so much and she… She told me she had, and that you weren't interested." She puts her hand to her forhead as if sensing a headache coming on. "That was five months ago. She refused to tell me the details, and I never brought it up again."

"Months…" Jason repeats.

Several files are popping up on Tim's phone screen, everything at a glance seemingly normal. Birth certificates, social security number, high school, and university diplomas.

_No immediate threat, then, but it's only an overview. Enough to get rid of our unwanted audience, at any rate. _

"I think we have a lot to discuss," Tim says politely. He turns to the nurse, and the two security guards that have manifested behind her, and frowns. "Is that completely necessary?"

"We weren't sure if she meant harm," one of the men mutters.

"Maybe if you'd taken the time to _listen_ to her," Tim replies icily. "If someone brings another chair for Ms. Amin, then I might not mention this to HR on my way out. There should be better protocols for this sort of thing, especially in a city like Gotham."

The three staff members are quick to leave then.

Safiya gives him an unimpressed look. "'_Might'_? Is that how you run your hospital?"

"Technically it's not my hospital, we just fund it. But I've already sent an email about it," Tim replies, waving his phone.

"Can we get back to the important stuff?" Jason interjects. "Like how apparently Isabel went out of her way for me to _not_ be involved, but somehow I'm still on the hook for _an entire human being_?"

As if to remind them that she's there, the baby gives a piercing whine, her little face grimacing as she smacks her lips. Her eyes are still shut, but Tim's not sure if that actually means she's asleep or not.

All Safiya's prickly demeanor vanishes, replaced with a look of such grief Tim finds himself losing any major doubt about her story.

_You can't fake a look like that._

The woman takes a step forward, and then pauses, glancing at Jason, before grudgingly asking, "Can I…?"

Jason's eyes dart at Tim like he knows the checking up he's been doing since Safiya showed up, and Tim nods. No actual threat here.

"Yeah, sure," Jason says, and they watch her move over and pick up the infant with ease.

_I wonder if it's a woman thing, that they just inherently _know_ how to do that_.

Safiya holds the baby with care, and the anger fades from her again; tears well in her eyes now. "She is beautiful."

Tim will take her word for it; all babies kind of look like wrinkled potatoes to him.

Safiya murmurs quietly to the infant, rocking her in her arms. No doubt she could stay here indefinitely doing that, but they don't have time for that.

Jason appears to think the same, because he asks, "You were close to Isabel, then."

"I've been friends with Isabel since she moved into the building," Safiya agrees. "She is—_was_ nice. One of the only people there that doesn't look at me like I'm about to pull a bomb out of thin air." She glowers at them as if expecting the same look from Tim or Jason, but when none comes, she continues, "We're both used to keeping odd hours. Her flights come in at any time of day, and I'm a grad student at Gotham University."

Tim half expects Safiya to keep hold of the baby as she sits, but something pained flickers across her face and she carefully places the infant back in the crib.

"I was there when she learned she was pregnant—or rather, when her boyfriend walked out because he figured out the child wasn't his," she says. "Once Isabel decided she was keeping the baby, I helped her out when I could. It's a lot of work, getting ready for a baby." She looks like she wants to glare at Jason again but holds back now that she knows it's not his fault. "She only ever said you were a former passenger. And that she couldn't take the stress that came with your lifestyle." Safiya studies him as if that will give her a clue. "I assumed you were a mobster or something."

This time it's Tim who snorts.

_That's actually pretty close to the truth._

"And you still barged in here looking for a fight?" Jason asks.

"There aren't many things left in life to scare me," she dismisses, which is a bit puzzling. "I've been going with her to her birthing classes, and I drove her here when she went into labor. It happened so fast—she'd been having the false contractions for two days, but we thought that's all it was. She wasn't due for another two weeks."

"Where were you when she…?" Tim trails off.

This time, Safiya does glare.

"I had to park the car. I dropped her off at the Emergency and they took her in a wheelchair. By the time I got back and found my way around this awful maze, she had already delivered. It was so fast…" She clenches her fists. "No one would tell me anything. I found a doctor, but he said there were…there were complications. That Isabel had passed."

There's a long beat of silence, grief evident on both Safiya's face, as well as Jason's.

"I asked after the baby," Safiya says eventually. "I wanted to know if she was alright, and they said she was fine. In good health. I wanted to see her, and they said I wasn't family. I could see her through the glass if I wanted, but that was it. And when I tried to see my friend, to say goodbye to her, they told me I had to wait. That the birth father had been contacted."

Her eyes snap with anger again.

"Because _apparently_ a man not even in her life has more rights to say what happens to my friend than I do. And every time I tried to speak to someone and explain the situation, they passed me off to someone else. They said someone would speak to me with information eventually, but that was hours ago. _Apparently,_ there's something about me that makes people nervous."

Sarcasm drips from her words.

"That's unacceptable," Tim says. "I'll look into it personally. If you can remember the names of the people who spoke to you, I can deal with it right away."

She looks doubtful about this.

"How did you know we were in here?" Jason asks.

"I was watching her through the window, but then the nurse came and removed her. I heard them say the father was here, and so I followed. But then I saw _you_," she concludes, indicating Tim, "and thought something wasn't right. Why _are_ you here?"

_A question I'm still asking myself. _

"I'm with him," Tim replies, electing not to go into detail.

She raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything to that.

"You said Isabel was preparing for this," Jason says. "Was she…did she want to keep the baby?"

"The baby has a name, you know."

And _that_'s news.

"Which is?" Jason prompts.

"Isabel decided on Luisa," Safiya informs them. "After her mother."

Tim recalls the name from his earlier perusal of Isabel's file, and that at least makes sense.

"Luisa," Jason repeats, staring down at the baby.

"Would you happen to have contact information for her relatives?" Tim asks.

"She has none. No brothers or sisters and her parents died when she was young."

Which is the same story Jason gave him.

"Of course," Tim sighs. "Well, at least there's some good news, she's not entirely alone if she has you, Ms. Amin."

"Yeah," Jason agrees, hope causing him to perk up. "I mean, if you're here to ask to take her, we could—"

"Hold on a minute," she interrupts, holding a hand up. "I think you've misunderstood my intentions. I'm not—I can't take her."

"Why not?" Jason blurts.

"Isn't that why you're here?" Tim asks at the same time.

"I'm here to ensure my friend and her daughter are taken care of properly," Safiya says, aggrieved. "If I could, I would take her in a heartbeat. But I have health conditions which make caring for an infant…difficult."

"Health conditions," he repeats, realizing he only skimmed her records quickly. An oversight, it seems. No matter. "Whatever your situation is, I would be willing to pay for help."

Jason's nodding along.

Safiya gives them both an unimpressed look. "It's not about throwing money at the problem, Mr. Wayne. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Huntington's five years ago."

Tim's heart sinks.

"Life expectancy for that is about ten years," he says faintly.

_No wonder she's not scared of a potential mobster; she's living with a death sentence._

Safiya nods. "I've been lucky, so far. It has not been aggressive and most of the time I'm still able to function. I can still drive, for example, though based on my last assessment I won't be able to for much longer. But there are days I'm so fatigued, I can't muster the energy to get out of bed. It's true—assuming the courts get over their phobia of letting a single woman of color adopt—that I could take care of her, as long as I had help. But in a few years, I won't be able to. And then there will be a small girl having to bury another mother. I would not wish that on any child."

Both Jason and Tim flinch at that; they both know what that's like.

"I told Isabel I would help however I could on my good days," Safiya continues. "But I can't commit to anything more than temporary care."

_Damn. There goes that option._

"Do you know anyone in her circle of friends who might do it?"

"She mentioned some friends more than others. I can give you their names and find you their contact information, but to be honest, outside of our friendship, we didn't move in the same circles. I only just met a few of them when she had her baby shower last month."

"She had a baby shower," Jason repeats, strained. "She really _was_ planning for all of this."

"Yes," Safiya confirms and then grows sad. "She was not planning for death. I don't think she even had funeral plans." She hesitates. "I would like to make sure her body is treated properly, but the staff here…"

"I'll make sure they don't give you any more trouble," Tim promises. "Out of anyone here, you probably know what she'd want more than we would."

Safiya purses her lips like she's holding back saying something, and then tilts her head to consider Jason. "What do you intend to do with Luisa?"

Silence hangs heavy in the air.

"That's the question of the day," he replies wearily.

⁂

Jason is silent a while, obviously conflicted.

Tim and Safiya watch him get up and stand by the window of the room; his fingers twitch, then curl into fists of what Tim imagines to be frustration.

Safiya doesn't miss the motion, and her expression grows concerned. She takes a longer look at Jason, studying him in greater depth, from the visible callouses on his knuckles to the scars at the corner of his mouth and beneath his hairline.

"You're not…" she begins, and Jason turns to acknowledge her. "You're not _actually_ a mobster, are you?"

To Tim's surprise, Jason's mouth twitches.

"Not this year," he says with a hint of humor.

Safiya is clearly confused, and Tim fights down a mental groan at Jason's usually flippant attitude choosing to manifest in the most inopportune moments.

_Good thing we're all such good liars._

"Jason's a former stuntman," he tells her, once again grasping for the first plausible thing that comes to mind. He makes a mental note to add that to whatever false background they'll inevitably have to create. "But he's been working with our family for years."

Jason smiles now, but it's an unpleasant and edged thing. "That's one way to put it."

Tim ignores him, instead slips into his charming-CEO persona.

"As you can imagine, we deal with a lot of threats given the Wayne Foundation's public funding of Batman Inc. Sometimes we require body-doubles when traveling, and Jason happens to be of similar height and weight to Bruce."

"Right," Jason says robotically. "Bodyguard to Bruce Wayne. It's an experience. Guy has as many enemies as Batman does. It's uncanny."

Tim shoots him a dirty look, which luckily Safiya misses as she sizes Jason up again. When she turns back to Tim, she furrows her brow. "Is that not weird for you?"

"Weird?"

"With you two being together," she clarifies. "And with him looking so much like your father."

Jason makes a huffing noise; Tim sort of hopes he's choking.

_At some point, I'm going to have to look into why people so easily buy the story of us being 'together'. _

"Bruce isn't my father," Tim says with a bit of a grimace. "Neither biologically, nor legally as of last year."

"I see," Safiya says slowly, not looking like she entirely buys it. "Didn't I read an article about you being engaged? To a woman?"

Tim sighs. "Vicki Vale has a lot to answer for. As I've said numerous times, Tam Fox is my assistant and my friend. We were never engaged—is there a reason we're analyzing my personal life right now?"

"Why not? We've been analyzin' mine all night," Jason says. "I think I like it better when it's you, _babybird_." The nickname is said with an inflection that could be teasing or mocking depending on the context. "Besides, you've got _all_ that practice."

_Well, if you want to play that game._

"A good thing, too, or I'd be the one with a surprise baby," Tim replies and is partially gratified to see Jason's brows draw together at the dig. His smile widens and he addresses Safiya, "Clearly we've all found ourselves in a situation we couldn't have possibly foreseen, so the best thing we can do is put our heads together and come up with a solution. But I think we've had enough to process this evening and rushing such an important decision would be unwise."

"That might be the first sensible thing I've heard since I got here," she agrees. "First of all, I want to make sure Luísa has somewhere to stay until that is sorted out. Will you be taking her home tonight?"

"No," Jason says.

"The hospital still has to get the results of the paternity test before any custody or guardianship decisions can be discussed," Tim elaborates. "That should be a day or two. I think the most pressing concern right now is what to do about Isabel."

Safiya becomes somber once again. "Yes. She should not be left here longer than needed. I have a key to her apartment. I can look around and see if she had any kind of arrangements or wishes. If she did, she never mentioned them, but it's possible."

"That would be helpful," Tim agrees. "Let me know if you find anything." He digs into his pocket for a business card and a pen, scribbling his personal phone number on it. "You can reach me here. Whether you find anything helpful or not, call me. We'll have to arrange transportation for her remains. The hospital will only hold her a week. And we'll need to notify her doctor if she had one, and call the country coroner."

"You're a little bit too informed about how to do this for someone so young…"

"I lost both my parents before I was sixteen. It's become an unfortunate routine."

"I'm sorry," she offers quietly.

"Thank you," Tim acknowledges. "I understand that you might want to notify her other friends, ask them to contact others to get the word out, but would it be possible to keep this to yourself until we have a better idea of what to do for Luisa?"

"Of course. I'll also call her work and let them know the news."

"Also, if you could see to all the relevant paperwork for Isabel, that would be extremely helpful," Tim continues. "As I said before, you probably have more of an idea of these things than we do." _Or at least more than we should. _"As for outstanding balances, I'll cover them—"

"No, I'll do that," Jason interrupts. "It should come from me."

"It should," Safiya agrees with a sharp nod. Probably she means it for different reasons; Tim suspects Jason just wants the least amount of Wayne money as possible involved in this. "I would also…if possible, I would like to say goodbye to her."

"By all means," Tim says. "If you want to do that now, I'll let the doctor know—"

"I doubt I'll have any trouble this time around," she says, waving him away. "Besides, I think you have your hands full with these two." She stands, then goes to lean over the baby once more, gently caressing her head. She says something Tim doesn't understand, and then straightens up. She nods at Jason and Tim. "I will be in touch."

And then she's gone.

As soon as they're alone, Tim rounds on Jason.

"Is there a reason you're treating all of this as a joke?"

"Are we sure it's not?" Jason asks with a grin that doesn't dispel the coolness of his eyes. "I'm still waitin' for someone to jump out and yell 'April Fools'."

"You're about a month late for that. And considering the fact you're legally dead, you could be a little less cavalier with the attention-grabbing non-sequiturs."

"What, like you? Treatin' this whole thing like it's a business meeting? This is a person we're talkin' about—_two_ people." His gaze flicks nervously to the infant. "And you're actin' like they're pieces on a board."

"Because right now, they are," Tim snaps. "And because _someone_ has to be getting ahead of this thing. Surprise is no excuse to not have contingency plans."

"Jesus Christ, but he did a number on you," Jason groans. "You sound exactly like him."

"Contrary to popular belief, that's not always a bad thing. Or would you rather I be channeling Dick right now?"

Jason's entire body goes even tauter than it's been since Safiya burst in. "I swear to god if you hug me right now, I will punch you."

Tim finds himself wondering if that might not be a good idea; a fight might be better for Jason than a shot of adrenaline.

_Or it will land me in a different wing of this hospital. So maybe not._

He's saved from replying when there's a knock on the door, and the nurse comes in.

"Visiting hours will be over at nine o'clock," she says. "If one of you wants to stay the night, I can arrange—"

"We're not stayin'," Jason says immediately. Noticing her taken-aback expression, he adds, "There's a bunch of stuff that needs doin'. For the, uh, baby."

"Of course. Would you like to feed her one last time yourselves? Or we can take care of her in the nursery."

Tim can see it on Jason's face that he's not keen on the exercise. Still, that same business-like set to his shoulders from earlier returns and he allows the nurse to go fetch a bottle of formula.

"Might as well know how to do this myself," he mutters, almost defensive when he meets Tim's gaze, and hesitantly picks up the infant on his own.

"I didn't say anything."

The entire tableau is so incongruous with what Tim knows of the other man that he's half-tempted to bring his phone up and snap a few secret shots, if only as evidence. Somehow, he suspects Jason wouldn't take kindly to it, and whatever goodwill he's gained tonight will vanish faster than Batman after a meeting with Commissioner Gordon.

"We should go back to my place," Tim suggests after a while. When Jason tilts his head in question, he adds, "To get the room ready. For when she's cleared to go."

"Right."

"Do you want to pick up anything from where you're staying? Or I can just order something for you online and have it shipped—"

"I can buy my own damn clothes if I need to," Jason grouses. "I don't need help packin' a bag."

"Fair. But I'm still driving you." Jason makes a face. "Don't give me that look. Are you seriously thinking you're clear-headed enough to drive right now?"

"I've had worse. Besides, I can get a cab or take the subways."

"You have no cash on you," Tim reminds him. "And you're still processing. I bet you'll get stuck in your head and miss your stop." He gestures out the window toward the parking lot. "Just tell me where you want to go and I'll take you there."

"The problem with that is you'll know where I live."

"It's funny you think I don't already."

Jason scowls. "At some point, we're having a conversation about you knowin' stuff about me that you shouldn't. It's creepy."

"Sure. I'll put it on the agenda under 'stealing other people's costumed identities' and 'using deadly force'. Should be fun."

"You're kind of an asshole, aren't you?"

"I'm the asshole who's helping you out, so I'd watch your mouth." Tim pauses, considers, and then adds, "Actually, you should do that anyway. You're holding a baby."

"I hate you."

⁂

Tim drives to one of Jason's safehouses in the Bowery, about halfway between his apartment and the bar where he found Jason earlier. The place is a rundown, fire-damaged building with boarded-up windows and a sign out front advertising cheap studios.

"Do you need any help?" he asks as Jason gets out of the car.

"Just how much stuff do you think I need?" is the irate response before Jason vanishes into the dilapidated lobby.

Tim scowls at his back.

_Someone remind me why I'm helping this jerk again?_

The memory of the very tiny human still in the nursery at Gotham General makes his facial muscles relax.

_Right._

Given the circumstances, Tim supposes he can overlook Jason's inconsistent moods. He needs someone to lash out at right now while processing, and it's not like Tim isn't used to it. Better him than the criminals of Gotham; Jason's pretty good these days about not using lethal force, but he might not care so much if he goes out without his head on straight.

_Speaking of going out…_

Tim surprised when Jason actually returns to the car ten minutes later instead of just vanishing. As he indicated earlier, he doesn't have very much with him, just a worn duffel bag that he tosses in the backseat of Tim's Porsche before having himself back into the passenger seat.

"Hope there aren't any severed heads in there," Tim remarks lightly as pulls away from the building. "I just had the seats redone."

Jason rolls his eyes. "A guy makes _one_ grand statement and they never let him forget it."

"You don't _want_ people to forget it."

"True," he agrees with a sharp grin that is anything but humorous.

It's a short journey back to Tim's place, but he still drives around the block to use the secret entrance to his base of operations.

"What, I'm not good enough for your front door?"

"Be my guest. Say hi to Vicki Vale when you do, she's usually lurking nearby." When Jason shoots him a sharp, questioning look he elaborates, "An occupational hazard of being the face of WE is having paparazzi camped out around my place every now and then. I figure you don't want your face showing up on the front of the _Gotham Gazette_."

"Yeah, that might have been worth mentioning when you offered your guestroom."

"Guess it's a good thing like all responsible Bats, I have an underground secret hideout."

He pulls into the back alley and flips the switch that activates the hidden ramp; the ground falls away and leads down toward the carpark. Tim won't lie, he enjoys the way Jason's eyebrows go higher the further in they get. The rest of the Family doesn't come here—even during citywide emergencies, the agreed-upon convergence point tends to be the original Batcave—so Tim doesn't have a lot of opportunities to show off.

And maybe showing off to his former childhood idol is something that doesn't go away, no matter how many years or murder attempts.

That subbasement is nowhere near as large as any of the Caves, but there are two other cars and a half-dozen motorcycles in various states of modification parked in a circle. Tim eases into the only empty space and cuts the engine.

"Welcome to the Nest," he says as he gets out of the car. "It goes three floors up not including this level. Outside it looks like just another apartment building behind my place, so no one would expect an actual secure installation inside." He gestures as he speaks. "Ground floor's got my crime lab and containment units, the second floor's all training stuff, and the third's the communication's hub. There's even aerial access, but I haven't had to use it yet."

Jason shakes his head. "Must be nice to be Dad's favorite."

"I wouldn't know, you'd have to ask Dick."

"Is that a popcorn machine?"

"No self-respecting hero's lair should be without one," Tim quips. "Come on, the living area's this way.

They head up the stairs to the main level, and Tim doesn't miss the appreciative glances Jason casts his tech and gear. He opens his mouth to offer to hook Jason up—extend the olive branch, so to speak—but stops himself; he doesn't know if, after this whole baby adventure is over, Jason's even going to want to stay in Gotham.

He slides open the hidden door, revealing Tim's apartment. It's the same deliberately clean open-concept room as he left it, except for one change. Across from the aquarium that hides the entrance switch, Tam Fox is reclining on the divan in the living room, one hand holding a glass of wine and another flipping expertly across her tablet.

She startles at the sound of the secret door sliding open, and that movement makes Jason tense, fingers ready to grasp for a weapon if need be.

"Relax," Tim tells him, unsurprised when Jason does the opposite. "She knows everything."

"And that's reassuring how?"

"I trust Tam with my life, and to put my interests above WE's or Bruce's," he explains. "Since at the moment you and I are working together, that means she puts your interests above WE and Bruce's too."

"_She_ can hear you and knows how to speak for herself," Tam quips, putting down her glass and standing up. "Who's this?"

"This is Jason, the friend I was telling you about."

Tim can almost _hear_ Jason scowling at that; he trusts new people about as much as Bruce does.

_Funnily enough, they both make the exact same face. _

"And since when is there wine in my apartment?"

"Since you sent me scrambling around Gotham running errands, you generously decided to buy me a bottle of this very nice Riesling," she replies, studying Jason. "When you said you had a friend with an emergency that required diapers, I was expecting Batgirl. Or Wonder Girl. Or Pru. Or, heck, even that Lynx-woman."

"Lynx?" Jason repeats, shooting Tim a disbelieving look. "Ghost Dragons Lynx? There's no way you have _that_ much game."

"Then he didn't tell you about what almost happened in Paris," Tam informs him.

"_Anyway_," Tim interjects. That's all he needs is for Jason to hear about his own near brush with fatherhood. "This is Tam. Officially she's my personal assistant, but I think 'friend and confidante' covers the relationship a lot better. And Tam, this is—"

"Jason Todd," she says immediately, her eyes fixed on the other man in disbelief. Tim is momentarily caught off-guard. "It took me a minute, but I recognize you anywhere."

_Okay. I didn't expect _that_. Though I probably should have. The Foxes were invited to all the same benefits and events Mom and Dad were. She probably knew or knew _of_ Jason. _

"Tam," Jason repeats, tilting his head to one side and frowning at her for a moment like he's trying to place her. His expression clears. "Tam. _Tamara_. Fox, right? You knocked Ned Davenport into a potted plant during Bruce's birthday party one year."

For once this evening, Tim is the one to feel a little bit off balance. Jason never talks about his time at Wayne manor in anything but unpleasant terms. And yet, Tim knows from Alfred's stories that there were happy times and that once, Jason was as much a part of life at the manor as Tim or Damian.

"He deserved it for 'accidentally' grazing my boobs when he passed by. Three times. And—and that's not the point! You _died_!"

"I got better," he replies with a bitter twist of his mouth.

She gapes for a moment, then reaches for her glass and downs the remainder of it.

"I'm going to become an alcoholic before I'm 25," she tells the empty glass in a resigned tone before turning back to Jason. "Okay. I don't even question this stuff anymore," she informs him. "He could show up tomorrow with the Devil himself and I wouldn't be surprised."

"Kid Devil, maybe. Lucifer doesn't like Gotham. He's more of a beach-party kind of guy."

Tam stares, clearly unsure if Jason is being serious or not; Tim actually isn't sure either and decides to change the subject.

"You want something to drink?" he asks as he heads for the kitchen. He doubts Jason will notice or care, but his mother raised him to be polite even to people that don't like him. "I doubt you want anything alcoholic after everything today, but I think I've got Zesti—"

"Water," Jason says absently, looking around the apartment. Now that Tam has been proven as a non-threat, he's clearly more interested in assessing his surroundings.

He notices the large pile of boxes and bags by the stairs at the same time Tim does.

"What the hell's this?"

"I called Tam and said it was an emergency and that we needed a few things."

"This is not _a few_ things."

"Well, you don't know how long you're going to need them," Tam replies. "Congratulations, by the way." Tim can't see Jason's expression, but doubts it's a good one from the way Tam quickly adds, "Or no congratulations? Where are we on the whole 'congratulations' thing?"

_I don't think either of us has the energy to get into what happened with Isabel just now. Redirection time._

"Did you have any trouble picking up the stuff?" Tim asks as he gets two glasses from the kitchen cupboard.

"Trouble?" she snorts, and her voice instantly goes from bemused to annoyed. "Do you know how hard it was to get all of this delivered without someone seeing me? Or seeing that it was baby stuff? That's all I need now is Vicki Vale adding cradle-robbing and teen parenthood to her stories about us."

"What's Vicki doing this time?" Jason asks.

"She's been trying to prove Tim's Red Robin for the better part of a year," Tam says. "She tried to get me to confirm that last year when all those ninjas tried to kill us, but I panicked and said we were engaged just to distract her."

"Talk about taking one for the team," Jason mutters.

Tim glares at him, and if he shoves the glass of water into his hands a little more forceful than he needs to, oh well. "She trots out that dead horse whenever Tam and I happen to be in the same room together."

"Which is doing wonders for my career," Tam deadpans. "People already scream nepotism because of who my father is, but now I've been reduced to either Tim Drake-Wayne's assistant or Tim Drake-Wayne's fiancée."

"Hope he's paying you overtime," Jason says and wanders over to the intimidating tower of cardboard and plastic. He makes a face. "How much of this shit did you order? There's like a lifetime supply of diapers here."

"Trust me, that'll last a month if you're lucky," Tam informs him. "My nieces and nephews did nothing but eat and poop for the first year of their lives."

Jason appears vaguely horrified. His gaze rests on something else. "Is that a _car seat_?"

"How else were you expecting to bring home a baby? Carry her on a subway?"

Neither man has a response to this.

"Oh, this is going to go well," she sighs. "Neither of you has any idea what you're doing, do you?"

"That would be putting it lightly," Tim acknowledges, and side-eyes Jason. "We should probably sit down and talk options, but that can wait until tomorrow if you want."

"Tomorrow," Jason agrees, and he sounds so exhausted and lost, that Jason takes pity on him.

"Come on, then. I'll show you to the guestroom," he offers and starts up the stairs. "It's right next to the bathroom if you want to shower. The water pressure here's not great—" He shrugs, as if to say, '_Park Row, what can you do?'_ "—but it's unlimited hot water."

Surprisingly, Jason follows without comment.

"I'll be here," Tam says, and there's an undertone to her words that suggest she's not going anywhere until Tim explains the whole story.

_And isn't _that_ going to be fun… _

⁂⁂⁂

_I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!_

_❤️️ = I love this story!_  
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_💐 = thank you for sharing this_  
_🍵 = tea spilled_  
_🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!_  
_🚔 = you're under arrest! the writing's too good!_  
_😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER_  
_😢 = you got me right in the feels_


	3. Chapter 3

Jason really wants to say something caustic to Tim about that Robin comment—about how it's something Dick would say, or that he's watched one too many Hallmark specials.

But the thing is, he can't argue the logic.

There is something about being Robin that creates a bond, and an inherent something you can trust in. They might disagree, and fight and even try to kill each other on occasion, but when it's down to the wire, there's no one you can trust more to have your back.

Not even Batman.

Which is why Jason hefts his duffel bag and allows Tim to lead him up the stairs of the open-concept apartment, through the upper floor that's just as unnaturally clean as the rest of the house. Jason suspects that's down to not really being lived in; his replacement probably spends more time falling asleep in his secret nest than anywhere else. Jason would bet his no-longer-extant trust fund that the only bit of the house that Tim spends much time it is in front of the flatscreen TV in his living room, playing on one of the fancy gaming consoles.

"This room's yours for as long as you want it," Tim says, disrupting Jason's musings. "That's the bathroom over there—clean towels in the cupboard under the sink—and my room's down the hall if you need me for anything. Just shout."

Jason takes a wary step into the room and blinks.

Tim probably thinks it's entirely modest, but the room is huge, possibly bigger than some of his bolt holes; it's practically its own self-contained unit minus a kitchen or bathroom. In addition to the usual trappings of a bedroom, there's a loveseat and coffee table by the window, a desk and shelves in the corner, and another flatscreen on the wall opposite the queen-sized bed. Even with all of that, it doesn't even feel crowded.

In fact, they could bring up all the stuff Tam Fox bought, store it here, and Jason still would be in no danger of knocking into any of it.

The reminder of the pile of baby things downstairs makes him frown again. Just how much help is he going to be accepting? He doesn't take charity well under normal circumstances and receiving it from Tim—fellow Robin or not—is a bitter pill.

Could be worse, he tells himself a beat later. It could be Dick or Bruce, and then he'd have to endure the double-teaming of concern and disappointment from both.

_Right. Disappointment from Bruce. Because _that's_ new. _

Still, he feels a very pervasive and irritating sensation in his stomach at having to take Tim Drake's help, especially after everything he's done to him in the past. He sort of wishes the kid was being an asshole about it—holding it over his head or something—but the fact he's not makes it ten times worse.

"Listen, I'm going to pay you back for all of this," he begins. "Once I figure everything out, I'll make sure we're square."

"I already said you don't have to," Tim dismisses.

"I'm still going to. I don't like owing people. So, name your price."

Tim sighs, and fixes him with an exasperated stare, like Jason is being needlessly stubborn or something. "I can't think of anything. But how about we start with you getting some sleep? At some point, you need to be capable of making decisions for the baby yourself, and it's not going to happen while you're brain is stewing in shock and the attempted alcohol poisoning you subjected it to earlier."

"I'm fine."

"_Sure_ you are. But your sleep schedule's about to take a major hit. Tonight might be the last time you actually get a few solid hours in a row for a while."

"If you think I'm sleeping tonight after all this…" Jason trails off, shaking his head.

"Fair," Tim allows and turns to leave. "I'm going to head out now. I won't be doing a full patrol, so if you're still awake when I get back, I'll help you bring the bassinet up and set it up. Unless you want to do it yourself. But Tam says those things require an engineering degree, and you're not exactly the most patient person ever."

"I'm not going to set fire to anything in your place. Probably."

"Is it weird that that's actually somewhat reassuring?"

"It's the honesty. I'm fully aware of my faults. Unlike some people."

"Speaking of…are you absolutely _sure_ you don't want to tell anyone else? I know for a fact Alfred's way more qualified—"

"_No_."

Bruce's disappointment he can live with; Alfred's, not so much.

"Right. Then I'll see you later."

And then he's gone, leaving Jason alone once again.

He stares around the room, imagining a cradle set up beside the bed, and the mountain of baby supplies. Even having seen and held the baby—even knowing her _name_—he's still having a hard time picturing bringing her home.

However temporary _that_ is.

It's yet another reason he's not cut out to have a kid—you have to have a home and roots and _stability_. And the closest thing he's ever had to a father figure was far from stable, judging by the propensity to dress up as a giant bat and fight crime.

Jason digs out his phone, tempted to call his friend again and to try to convince him he needs him to be here.

Except, if Roy's in the thick of a job, Jason doesn't want to risk calling at an inopportune moment just to bother him with his shit. And he knows how touchy a subject it is, especially considering what happened to Lian.

_Better not._

Roy will contact him when he can, or he'll likely just show up. Until then, Jason just as to…figure all this out on his own.

Which he can do.

He's a goddamn adult, isn't he?

_Shit, I've got to be now. _

There's a knock at the doorway, which even if he didn't know it was her, would tell him it's Tam Fox.

(Bats don't knock; that would mean understanding the meaning of privacy.)

Tam lingers against the doorjamb, shifting uneasily, and isn't _this_ a blast from the past?

Jason has done a pretty good job of avoiding running into anyone who knew him before he died, especially when it comes to civilians. The only person who knows for sure outside of the Family is a prostitute named Rhonda that's walked the streets of Park Row since before Jason ran away from his first foster home. And while she knows he's Jason Todd, she doesn't know he's the Red Hood or that he was Robin.

_Which, I guess, Tam probably doesn't either. Tim just said I was a 'friend', not what kind of friend. _

Still, it's a whole different thing, having someone from high society, who remembers the kid he was, even if it was the distant relationship of acquaintances. He has to remind himself that Tim trusts her, and Bruce has always trusted her father, and if those two paranoid freaks consider them good people, it would be stupid of Jason not to do the same.

"Tim asked me to stick around for a bit and keep an eye on you," she says after a few seconds of awkward lingering. "I think it's kind of pointless—I mean, look at the size of you."

Jason shrugs. "He probably thinks I'm going to take off."

"Are you?"

"Considering it," he admits. "But what's the point? It's not like it would change anything."

_There would still be a kid out there—my kid. _

Tam's eyes soften. "You must be scared out of your mind."

"I don't get scared," he replies automatically.

"That's a bald-faced lie. Even people who plan to have kids are terrified when it happens." She folds her arms. "Now, I don't know your story or where you've been all these years, or how you're involved with Tim and his…night job. And I probably don't _want_ to know. But you're barely older than me, and if I was in your place, I'd freaking out."

Jason clenches his fists.

"Also, Tim probably didn't bother asking, but are you going to be okay?"

"I have no fucking clue," he admits at last. "This was never the plan. It was never part of _any_ plan."

"I bet. The, uh, _nightlife_ isn't exactly one you want to bring kids into. Especially if you're like Tim."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means…look, Tim's a good guy," Tam says. "But when it comes to stuff like this, he's sort of…" She tilts her head to one side as though thinking of the right words, and then says, "He's sort of like _Pinocchio_."

Jason huffs in amusement. "Because he's so small and wooden?"

"Because he spends most of his time pretending to be a real boy and has a very casual relationship with the truth," she corrects. "That's not the sort of environment you want to raise a child in. Parents shouldn't have to lie to their kids, even if it's to protect them. And kids shouldn't have to lie to their parents." She pauses, clearly chewing on something, and then asks hesitantly, "Does your…um…does Mr. Wayne know you're…?"

"He knows," Jason replies shortly.

"Right. Of course. Though…I mean, I would have assumed if he did there'd have been a big press conference or media thing."

"I didn't exactly come back here on good terms with him."

"That wouldn't matter. He was devastated when you died. He stopped going to work or doing _anything_. Dad had to take care of everything."

"Oh, yeah, he was _really_ broken up," Jason pretends to agree, feeling his mouth twist unpleasantly. "Didn't take him long to move in the new kid, though."

"It wasn't like that," Tam protests. "Tim told me. He said that B—"

She cuts herself off, clearly unsure of how much he knows. Jason can't help be impressed by how in the know she seems to be; knowing about Tim's extracurricular activities is one thing, but knowing Gotham City's biggest secret as well? He begins to reevaluate just how far up her metaphorical security clearance is.

"He said Bruce was self-destructing," Tam concludes, clearly deciding to remain vague. "It was going to get himself or someone else killed if Tim didn't step in."

And Jason knows that now, of course, and doesn't even blame Tim for it anymore; but it doesn't make things hurt less.

"Who's to say that wouldn't have been the better option?" Jason challenges. "Maybe if Tim stayed out of it and B crossed that line, Gotham would be safer now."

The slight widening of Tam's eyes is the only indication she's noticed his acknowledgment of just how much he knows. But Jason is now too distracted by his thoughts to remark on it.

"See, dear old Dad and I have philosophical differences about some pretty common sense stuff. Namely, taking out the scumbags who deserve it. The unforgivable types, like rapists and child molesters and the Joker."

"You went up against the _Joker_?" Tam gapes. "Are you _crazy_?"

"Seemed fair, since he was the one who killed me," Jason shrugs. Tam's mouth actually drops at this; clearly, she hasn't heard those details, either. "Not that I'll ever get the chance since B's always there to get in my way. The number of times that crazed clown almost killed me—almost killed _all _of us—"

He cuts off with a choked growl because it's an argument he can perform by rote now, in several languages.

His fists clench tighter in anger, seething at the old resentment. It's not as fresh as it was when he first came out of the Pit, or even when he was carrying out his plans to force Bruce's hand. But there will always be a stinging ache just beneath his breastbone whenever he thinks about the situation.

He remembers that other Earth, where after losing him, Bruce effectively ripped apart Gotham's rogues and made the place safer; where the cost of peace for the city was his own soul.

It's a sacrifice Jason's always been willing to make.

He wonders if that's all going to change now, with the…

Jason pauses, and realizes for the first time tonight since receiving that voicemail from Dr. Kerry, he hasn't been thinking of the baby.

Granted, it was because his mind went back to fixating on the psychopath that killed him, but he's finally feeling something beyond numb disbelief.

_This_ feeling he knows; these thoughts are familiar ground.

He squints at Tam, considering.

"You're good at that," he says at last.

"At what?"

"Being a distraction. I see why he keeps you around."

"He doesn't keep me around, I keep him alive," she retorts. "I'm way more than a distraction, thanks very much."

"Obviously. You know the big secret and you're still here. There are only a few people who can cope with it."

_And not everyone does it well._

"It's been a steep learning curve. A lot of which was playing catch-up and learning to decode Tim's _everything_. And I almost walked a few times," she admits. "Last year was the closest I came to it. Tim faked my father's death for another one of his convoluted plans. He didn't tell me anything, and then just expected me to be okay with it." Her mouth turns downward; obviously it's still a sore spot. "After a few weeks of thinking about it, and talking things through with my dad, I understood why he did it. But I also decided I'm not cut out to be kept in the dark. If I'm going to be in on this stuff, I'm going to be _in_ on it."

"That's a different take from your dad," Jason says. "He always liked being ignorant until the last possible moment."

"Pretending to be ignorant," Tam corrects him. "For plausible deniability. But if there's anything I've learned working for WE and for Tim, it's that ignorance can get you in just as much trouble as knowledge can. And if I'm going to get killed by ninjas, I'd rather I knew what it was for."

Jason can't help a chuckle at that. "That's weirdly specific."

"Well, if you're too wired to sleep, I'll tell you all about it."

Jason pauses for a moment, not entirely comfortable with the offer—it's somehow too easy, too _normal_; in his experience, sitting down with old acquaintances leads to bloodshed.

But the lure of keeping his mind off his own troubles is too much.

"I'm all ears," he tells her.

**⁂** **⁂** **⁂**

If Tam is uneasy conversing with a legally dead man, she hides it well. She doesn't ask him how he's involved in Gotham's nightlife, and he doesn't volunteer. Instead, for a few hours, she distracts him with stories of Tim's more paranoid and dramatic antics, including but not limited to her having the chase him halfway across Europe while he was searching for Batman.

"Of course, I didn't know that's what he was doing," she tells him, sitting cross-legged on the sofa across from the bed. "I thought he was just trying to _find himself_ or whatever rich playboys do when their dad dies. And then I walk into my hotel room one night, and there he is on my bed, dressed in bright red Kevlar and bleeding out next to a woman with a slit throat."

"Hell of a way to discover your boss is a vigilante," Jason snorts.

"Well, I already knew there was something weird about him considering all the trouble I went through trying to track him down, but honestly the worst I thought was him owing someone money."

"You thought the millionaire wunderkind owed people money?"

"It could happen," Tam defends herself. "I almost wish it had been that. We have lawyers for that kind of thing. But no, it's all 'League of Assassins' and 'cults of death'." She rolls her eyes. "I'm surprised he hasn't lost more than his spleen."

_That_ Jason didn't know.

Of course, it's not like he peruses the mainframe for an up-to-date list of injuries everyone has. At least, not since he stopped trying to take any of them out. But losing an organ was a hell of a sacrifice to make for the sake of tracking down Bruce.

_Hope the old man was grateful at least._

Tam goes on to talk about a ploy by the League to kill all the Bats and their allies (which Jason probably only missed out on due to being in space at the time), which somehow devolves into a rant about Tim's increasingly extra cold war with Vicki Vale that involved their fake engagement and him spending a year in crutches to prove a point (Jason thinks he remembers Kory pointing that out to him in one of her gossip magazines once), and at last a full-on tirade about lying to her about her father's death.

"You're at least gettin' hazard pay, right?" he asks. "It's not like he can't afford it."

"Oh, you have no idea," she replies with a hard smile that wouldn't be out of place on one of Gotham's rogues.

Their conversation finally comes to an end around two o'clock in the morning when Tim returns, hair slicked with sweat and bruises on his face.

"What happened?" Tam asks, getting to her feet. "I thought you said you were only going out to keep an eye on things."

"I ran into Robin while I was out, and we exchanged certain words. And certain fists."

"Why?" Jason wants to know, immediately tense at any kind of Bat attention, even if it's not on him.

"The demon brat wants me back to San Francisco as soon as possible because Gotham's "his city"," Tim replies, making air quotes.

"Jesus, the apple really didn't fall far with that one, did it?"

"I actually think it's his way of checking up on me. If he intended to hurt me, there'd have been sharp objects involved, or he'd have cut my line while I was in midair again."

"_Again?"_

Damn, Jason's tried to kill Tim before, but he at least had the stones to do it to his face. That sneaky shit is straight-up League tactics.

"Misunderstanding," Tim dismisses. "But this is good. If he thinks I'm just staying here to stick it to him, he's not about to go asking questions or dig deeper. He'll just take it as a challenge to go out on patrol more and try to one-up me that way."

"And if he complains to anyone at the manor, they'll shrug it off as his usual gripin' about you," Jason catches on.

"Exactly."

It's kind of genius, actually.

"And that's my cue to leave. One of us needs to not fall asleep in the boardroom," Tam announces, eyes wide and somewhat bemused at their conversation.

She might be in the know, but clearly doesn't quite understand the dynamic between Tim and the youngest Bat. Jason's not sure he fully understands it himself. He'd wager it's something like the way he and Dick were when they were younger, only with more actual attempts at murder.

(And Damian might be a lethal little monster, but Jason knows if Tim one day decides to abandon Bruce's golden rule and really start trying, the little demon will be taken out before he even knows what hit him.)

"That was once," Tim is grousing. "And we'd just stopped a secret order of _owls_ from taking over Gotham. I earned that nap."

Tam gives a groaning sigh—clearly, it's an old argument—and turns to Jason.

"Don't look at me, I'm actually on his side for this one," he shrugs.

Tim blinks. "Really?"

"Don't make it weird, Drake."

_That night was a pain in the ass. Freeze and an undead owl acrobat at the same time? Not fun. _

Tam's brow furrows.

"I have questions," she says slowly, "but they can wait. I really do need to sleep." She digs into her pocket and presses something into Jason's hand—a business card with her name on it. "If you need anything and Tim's not around—or if Tim _is_ around but glued to a computer screen or something—give me a call."

Jason stares at the card, not entirely sure what to say to that.

"See you, Tam. Want me to walk you to your car?" Tim asks.

"I know the way out. Besides, I ordered an Uber, I'm fine. Go shower and get some sleep, mister."

She leaves.

"Did she just..._decide_ that we're friends?" Jason asks Tim after she's left.

The younger man huffs. "I think she's just happy to find someone who she can complain to about me and my nighttime shenanigans who actually gets it."

"Yeah, except I get the other side of it."

"She doesn't know that."

Jason shakes his head, shoving the card in his jacket pocket.

_Criminally insane villains I get; people are weird._

"So other than bondin' with the kid, what'd you get into tonight?" Jason asks, not really interested but wanting to gloss over the puzzling interaction.

"Murder at a construction site near Newtown," Tim replies, clearly picking up on Jason's unease. "Someone called in a tip and the police found a teenager encased in concrete."

"Mob hit?"

"Most likely. And a weighty one. Giancarlo Gazzo's kid."

Jason raises his eyebrows. "Shit."

"Exactly. Could be just the usual competition for contracts, but it's more likely a prelude to an all-out mob war. It'll definitely justify me sticking around here for a while."

"Unless B decides to take over."

"He won't. Selina's in town, so he's going through one of his trusting periods where he respects us all doing our own thing. I give it another month or so before he starts up with the micromanaging."

"You have two much faith in him. I give it two weeks."

Tim looks like he has something he wants to say to that, but chooses not to. Instead, he jerks his head toward the hallway. "I'm going to shower. Do you need anything? I don't think I said so before, but you can help yourself to anything in the kitchen."

"Nah. Go take a shower, Bruce 2.0. You stink like grotty socks."

"I'm sure you smell like a rose at the end of a patrol."

"And don't you forget it," he quips back as Tim leaves.

As soon as he's gone, Jason's irreverent façade vanishes and he falls back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly.

_What am I doing? _

This morning seems so far away, almost like it happened weeks ago. Waking up ignorant of the possibility of having a kid and intending to do nothing more in his near future than get completely shit-faced. Tomorrow (today?) things were supposed to go back to normal, to Jason's usual routine of patrolling his neighborhood and avoiding people like Tim.

And now he's _staying in Tim's apartment._

Because in a few days he's going to bring home _his daughter._

His stomach twists again at that thought, still having trouble with the word.

Did Roy ever feel like this?

Sure, he was shocked at the big reveal, but then he threw himself into being a dad. He wanted it. Hell, _Bruce_ had wanted to be a father. He wanted Jason once, had even adopted him after all the crap Jason put him through in the beginning. Having a kid was never a burden to him, even if he'd gotten a lot wrong, and he took to the idea much faster than Jason's doing now.

_Maybe it's because he had practice with Dick. Or the fact we were all older and not babies. Made it less terrifying. _

Though Jason's not sure he would be any less messed up if it were ten years from now and Isabel was introducing him to a preteen daughter.

_Different sort of terrifying, I guess. Even Bruce would be better at adapting to that than me._

And Jason would really like to know why his thoughts keep circling back to Bruce.

_"Because he's your dad, moron," _Roy's voice echoes in his head. _"Now grow a pair and start thinking like an adult."_

Jason privately maintains he's been having to think like an adult all his life, why can't he have a day off for once?

An awareness hits him of being watched and he sits up, noticing that Tim has returned and is standing framed in his door. His shower-damp hair hangs past his chin and he's dressed in a T-shirt and flannel pants, but he still manages to look as stiff and business-like as if he's about to walk into a meeting. Of course, he always kind of looks like that to Jason, mostly because he can't recall ever seeing him dressed casually before today.

Or yesterday.

Whatever.

"Can I come in?" Tim asks.

Jason shrugs. "It's your place."

"And it's your room as long as you're here."

"Just get your ass in here," he groans. He's not sure what's more annoying: when Tim's managing him or trying to be considerate.

The younger man settles on the sofa where Tam was before, brow furrowed like he's trying to decide what he wants to say. At last, he settles on, "I know you don't want to, but the sooner we get out in front of this the better. We can't just keep reacting."

Jason glares. "It isn't a PR problem, asswipe, it's a kid."

"Really? I hadn't noticed while I was feeding and holding her and you were running away to have a freak-out," Tim snaps. Before Jason can snarl back at him, he groans and rakes his hand through too-long bangs. Taking a deep breath, he makes a calming gesture. "Sorry. Anyone would be freaking out. The point I'm trying to make is that we need to know what we're doing so we can plan properly. We can't just sit here pretending like it's going to go away."

"You keep sayin' 'we', but the last time I checked, this is all on me."

"No, it isn't." Tim's borderline frustrated expression softens. "It takes two people, Jason. And it's just as much on Isabel as on you. It's sad she died—of _course_ it is—but she also didn't tell you something that was of vital importance. Especially considering who you are."

"It's because of who I am she didn't tell me," Jason replies quietly, trying not to show how much the other man's words caught him off-guard. "And that's on me."

"And you say _I_ sound like Bruce," Tim mutters, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Whatever. Stick a pin in that argument, it'll keep." He lowers his hands, staring at Jason with bleary eyes that are trying for serious. "Before we make any kind of arrangements, I need to know: are you _absolutely sure_ you don't want to keep her?"

"I can't," Jason croaks, a sharp pang hitting him in the gut. "I'd ruin her."

Tim's mouth thins. "I don't think you give yourself enough credit, but okay."

"Excuse me if I don't buy that from the guy whose throat I _literally_ cut."

"And if you wanted me dead, I would be," Tim dismisses. "You weren't exactly you at the time."

"I was me enough."

"Would you stop trying to pick a fight with me?" Tim snaps then. "I'm trying to help you. I don't need reminders of what a colossal asshole you've been to me in the past, I was _there_. This is about a kid. _Your_ kid. And if you're not going to keep her, then we need to know the best options for her."

Jason feels a tiny prick of shame at that, but he tells himself it's only because Roy offered him the same advice earlier.

"You and Safiya both said she was dating," Tim goes on.

"And apparently it ended badly."

"We don't know for sure it ended because Isabel was pregnant," Tim reasons. "It might have been for some other reason. Maybe we can appeal to the guy's better nature."

"You believe in the Tooth-Fairy too?"

"It's an _option_."

"It's barely an option."

"Still an avenue we can explore," Tim insists. "Maybe after we've talked to her friends. She's got to have someone other than Safiya who might take Luisa." Jason startles a bit at the name, having temporarily forgotten about it. "Assuming you don't want to keep her in Gotham?"

Jason isn't entirely sure what he wants. On the one hand, Gotham is a cesspool, his home only because his blood is literally all over this city. There's nowhere else he can imagine living. But if he'd had a choice? If as a child, his parents packed him in a car and drove him to anywhere the hell else? Things would have been very different.

And on the other hand, every kid deserves to know their parents, in some way. If they can find someone who knew Isabel better than Jason did, she won't grow up completely separated from the woman who gave birth to her.

Tim appears to take his silence for disagreement because he goes on, "Then there's adoption, of course. We keep it private, find and vet a family using our parameters—no need to even go through the system if that's what you want—and it can be open or closed or whatever you want it to be."

Jason nods mechanically.

"And you realize that to do any of this, you're going to have to exist? Officially?" Tim points out. "No one asked for your information tonight because I caught them off-guard when I showed up. But that was a one-time thing."

"Aw, come on, you tryin' to tell me money doesn't buy privacy? We both know that ain't true."

"Not about this. Not in the eyes of the government. You're going to need to exist on paper, at least—and it won't be the basic false identities you've been using the past few years," Tim goes on. "Which is going to cause a whole slew of other problems, because once you're a legal entity, it's going to take a hell of a lot to make it go away when this is all over."

"I'll just fake my death."

"Which might just make the wrong people start paying attention—not only to you but the rest of the family. It would be easier if you just stayed alive."

Jason's not entirely convinced. "Easier for who?"

"For everyone. The family. You. Even Luisa. What if 20 years from now she develops a hidden genetic condition, or gets into an accident, and you're the only biological relative she has who can help? Or are you just going to completely wash your hands of her once you hand her off?"

The phrasing grates. "This isn't me _handin' her off_. I'm tryin' to make sure she's got a life, which is somethin' I can't give her!"

"I'm not criticizing you," Tim shoots back. "I'm just trying to make a point. Every option has pros and cons. You need to decide which ones you can live with. And which ones will still affect you even when she's not here anymore."

Jason folds his arms and scowls, trying to come up with an argument even though he knows the younger man has a point. It would be stupid not to prepare for every eventuality, especially given the way everyone in the Family has had something from their past spring up and bite them in the ass.

_But bringing me back to life? It's not something I ever considered when I got back to Gotham._

Jason Todd-Wayne was dead and would stay dead by his own choice. It was safer for everyone that way, surprise baby included. But then…this could also be a chance for him to start over, even if he didn't keep her.

And having a name of his own—one that wasn't tied to the record of a stupid Alley kid that jacked tires, or to Bruce Wayne's dead son—might be kind of liberating.

And if it offers even a modicum of protection for Isabel's kid…for _his_ kid…

Jason took a deep breath, ruminating on it a further few seconds, and then nodded. "Fine. Let's do it."

Tim blinks as if he had been expecting much more argument than that.

"I'll get started on that for you tomorrow then," he says, almost hesitant.

"Great. Now get out of here," Jason snaps. "I've got a few hours of not-sleepin' ahead of me, and I can do that without someone to hold my hand, thanks."

The other man sighs and gets up. "Good night, Jason.

**⁂** **⁂** **⁂**

As expected, Jason doesn't sleep that night.

His eyes remain trained on the ceiling of the guestroom while his subconscious drags him along a tilt-a-whirl of anxious and circular thoughts. He can barely process what they are with how fast they manifest and vanish again to be replaced with new ones. And before he's really aware of it, the sun is streaming through the window that he forgot to pull the shades over, and he hears movement outside the room.

Figuring he might as well get up, he heaves himself out of bed and ambles down the stairs, skirting the piles of baby supplies he somehow forgot about while drowning in his night of circular thinking.

Tim is standing in his kitchen doing up his tie, nodding and humming with a frown on his face. Jason's about to ask until he notices the hands-free earpiece in one ear. That could be either for work or to cover the Bat-issue comm; he probably has the latter plugged in permanently the same way Bruce does.

Tim notices him, and his mouth quirks upward in a not-quite smile of greeting.

"I'll be in shortly, Lucius," he says distantly. "We can discuss it before the meeting." He taps the earpiece, hanging up, and then addresses Jason. "Good morning. You look like shit."

"It's the 'I-didn't-sleep' chic, which you should recognize since you invented it."

"You're just jealous you can't make it look as good as I can," Tim quips, and maybe if Jason were well-rested, he'd have a better retort for that. Instead, he narrows his eyes to study the younger man.

Tim Drake is polished and put-together, the epitome of perfect Wayne heir. Damian might throw around the words 'blood son' at every opportunity, and Dickie might be the first and favorite son, but Tim's the one actually carrying on the Wayne legacy. From what Jason's heard, he does it better than Bruce ever did.

_Goddamn workaholic_. _And that suit probably costs more than rent for one of my _legal_ apartments._

"I'm heading out," Tim announces needlessly, taking a sip of what must be coffee from a travel mug. "I'll try to get home before four o'clock, but it really depends on how much work Lucius decides to pile on while I'm still in town."

"Because it sure as hell won't get done if B is the only one around," Jason agrees, earning a sharp grin in reply.

"Exactly."

And _there's_ the cocky little bastard Jason's been waiting to re-emerge after a day of being hidden by the scarily competent functioning adult façade.

"Feel free to stick around here and play the game system or raid the fridge or whatever. It's up to you. The security system's biometric, but I can give you an override code—" Noticing Jason's disgusted and somewhat insulted look, he huffs, "Or not. Whatever. You'll figure it out."

He leaves without saying anything else, and suddenly Jason is well and truly alone for the first time since waking up on the anniversary of his death with his only thought being to get black-out drunk.

Funny how much twenty-four hours can change.

_Except it's really not. _

Jason doesn't want to spend another day thinking over all of his problems and the infinite possibilities of how the situation can become even more screwed up or confusing, so he busies himself with breaking into Tim's hideout.

That occupies him for a little while, figuring out the security codes to the false wall and then to the locks on his computer system. He spends the morning wandering around, getting to know the frankly sweet set-up of the place, testing out the training room and looking under the hood of the cars in the garage.

_Wonder if Timbers would help me outfit my bunker._

He's been squatting in an old subbasement beneath GCPD headquarters for a few weeks now; the place was cut off from the main building during the Cataclysm a few years back and for whatever reason, everyone seems to believe it was caved in beyond repair.

Jason's cleaned the place out and set up his own operation, but it doesn't have the tech or necessities of an actual Cave. Which, frankly, isn't fair, since everyone else has their own Batman-free getaway to hide in when the old man gets in one of his moods. Hell, even the _new kid_ has a place beneath the Fox center.

As soon as the thought enters his mind, Jason scowls.

_What the hell am I thinking? _

None of this is even going to matter for a while anyway, now that he's about to be benched. Might as well say goodbye to the state-of-the-art vigilante tech now and spare himself the disappointment.

He leaves the Nest (was Drake born without the ability to be original or something?) and returns to the living area, examining the place with a more critical eye this time around.

He still ignores looking at the pile of baby supplies.

Jason's first impression the day before was of a barely lived in space, meant to show any would-be-intruders how a normal local celebrity might live. He learns he was only half-right when he spies smaller, more personal touches in the décor as he wanders through the house. There are photographs arranged along most of the walls, which on first glance he assumed were the kind you picked up at Ikea to make a place look classy, but he realizes as he studies the black-and-white images that they are shots of various locations in Gotham.

_Locations a normal person can't actually get to._

Which means Tim must have taken them himself; it's just innocuous enough that a regular visitor would only admire the clarity of the shot. To someone like Jason, it's impressive for completely different reasons; not least of all the danger inherent in achieving just that right angle. Two pictures he knows could only have been taken by hanging one-handed off a Gotham Trade Centre gargoyle.

The whole thing says more about Tim's personality than any human detritus or strewn personal belongings could.

Though he does have those, too.

The shelf beside the television has a copy of what might be every video game known to man, across three different platforms. The study is filled with vintage board games and robot figurines and piles of tech magazines. Everything is scary neat—the professional, unnatural Stepford kind of neat that speaks of someone paid to clean it—with the exception of Tim's bedroom. Jason pokes his head in there for like a second before shuddering and walking away from it.

_How has Alfred not murdered you yet, kid?_

Back downstairs, he studies the faux mantle above the electric fireplace where he sees artfully placed personal pictures of other recognizable personages. Tim with his Kryptonian and speedster friends, then him along with his generation of Titans. There's one of him as a child with two people Jason assumes are his parents at a high society event of some sort, as well as a wedding photo of him much older; the man beside him is the same, but the woman in the veil is different. Stepmother, probably.

Jason pauses to smirk at the one of Tim and Dick on a beach somewhere, both ridiculously sunburned; it's in the same folding frame as one with them both sitting beside Bruce on a beach chair. The older man is asleep, or at least pretending very well, and they've used sunscreen to write _'I hate this place'_ on his chest. Alfred obviously took that one.

The family butler is in the next image, standing beside the entry stairway of the manor with a thoughtful expression on his face. It's so clearly staged to seem as distinguished as possible.

_Guess Alf never did get over his dislike of having candid pictures of him taken._

Moving on, there's a four-strip photo of Tim and Blondie stuck in the frame of a larger one with all three Batgirls past and present in what he supposes is Barbie's apartment, with them trying to show Cass how to make a duck face. Beside it, one of Tim and the Thomas kid arguing over what looks to be a disemboweled computer; judging by the thumb shape in the corner it was taken sneakily and probably by Dick. Hell, there's even one of the demon brat there, conked out on a couch in Bruce's study with a black and white cat curled up on his chest.

_Family's all here, _he thinks with a grim sort of humor. _All except yours truly. _

He's not sure if he would have expected different, given his and Tim's relationship. They might partner on occasion, and he works better with Tim than any of the other Bats he sometimes teams up with, but it's not like they're actually close. He doesn't go out of his way to spend time with him outside of the mask, and then there's a chasm of tense history between them.

He'd actually be surprised if—

Something catches his eye as he turns away from the fireplace, if only because next to all the gleaming frames its' ordinariness makes it stick out. There's a faded paper propped up against the wall behind a decorative clock, and when Jason reaches to pick it up and examine it, he finds himself staring down at his own grinning face.

Sort of.

It's him from years ago.

The Jason Todd before Bruce stopped trusting him; before finding out his entire life had been a lie and before the Joker destroyed him. And it's not so much a picture as a clipping from a newspaper.

Little Jason grins up at the photographer, missing his right canine and the same side of his face slightly puffy. Jason vaguely remembers the fight with Two-Face the night before, faster than he recalls sitting for this photo. He's wearing a school uniform, can now recall the harried little man asking if he was sure he didn't want to wait for picture retakes so they could get a picture when his face wasn't bruised ("Bruce tried to teach me to ride a horse. They need to make those things closer to the ground!") and him refusing because he _earned_ these colors, thanks very much—

Jason can't figure out how this photo ended up in a newspaper, though; the only pictures of him still extant in public are the ones they drag up on television every few years when Bruce does some bit of charity for orphans. Reminders of the poor dead orphan.

But this one—no, now he remembers.

This was the photo the press used during the custody case when Bruce was publicly battling Natalia Knight for guardianship of Jason. It's not a copy, printed off the internet or digitally finished as a photograph. There's yellowing around the edges and the paper quality is thin and grainy the way an actual newspaper is when it ages.

_But why the hell does Tim have this?_

He's been back from the dead for years now, and with the Bat propensity for stalking and surveillance footage, if Tim wanted a photo of him, he could certainly have gotten all manner of material. Why this one? And why include it here at all, if it's hidden away behind the others like a dirty secret?

The whole thing is vastly unsettling, and as he remembers Tim's words from yesterday—

_"We're too complicated to be family. But we are Robins. And in a lot of ways, I think that's stronger than us being _part_ of the Family."_

—his chest starts to experience that vicelike pressure he's been having on and off since learning about Isabel and the baby.

He's struck by the very pressing need to get out of here.

Fleeing the apartment for the hidden Nest once more, Jason finds the exit protocols and manual overrides for Tim's system, then borrows one of the bikes in the garage area. Tim did say he was free to do 'whatever' and though Jason doubts that includes absconding with his wheels, he doesn't entirely care. He doesn't even bother looking for the tracking beacons he knows are hidden on them.

He's not running away, he's just…clearing his head.

Or clearing it as well as anyone can while navigating the construction and traffic-infested roads of Gotham.

An open highway would be the most ideal way for him to lose himself and avoid his complicated feelings, but he supposes that option has its own dangers. Like just driving straight to California and pretending the past day has been nothing but a bad dream.

Instead, the constant roadblocks and detours Jason's forced to take through the corners of the city jog his brain back into thinking. Back into reasoning and solving problems and improvising like he usually does.

First of all, he needs to stop letting Tim do everything for him.

Jason is capable—has survived on his own his whole life; it's time to get his shit together. And to do that, he has to find someone who can take care of the baby.

His daughter.

He needs to get used to saying it, whether he stays in her life or not.

Jason isn't entirely sure what he's looking for in terms of the plans Tim suggested to him the night before. There's merit to all the ideas, but he's stuck between getting her out of Gotham or finding someone here who knew Isabel.

_Or at least someone who knew she was expecting a kid. Any kind of connection to her mother would be better than nothing. _

In theory.

Jason's pretty sure that it's a rare kid—himself included—who would have been better off without knowing anything about their birth mother. But Isabel is not Sheila, and the situation isn't anything like that one.

He's not even sure where to start looking for potential guardians.

Though Isabel's friend Safiya said she would be looking into it, it's once again putting Jason in the position of letting others deal with the consequences of his own actions. If only he knew more about what frame of mind Isabel was in before all this started…

Jason didn't live with the world's greatest detective for three years of his life without learning how to build a profile on someone. And the best starting point for that is where she spent most of her time.

He pulls over in the parking lot of a Bat Burger to unlock the fancy computer hidden within the bike's dash (obviously one of Tim's own design) and linking to the Bat-network's backdoor to Gotham General's patient records. Then it's a simple search to bring up Isabel's personal information, including her latest address.

Turns out she moved a lot closer to Gotham General than she was before; as he revs the motor and takes off again, Jason wonders if that was pre-emptive.

Isabel's place is on the edge of Midtown, where the business district turns residential. The condominium itself seems well taken care of, especially in contrast to the fixer-uppers Jason's used to in his own neighborhood, but in Gotham, that means next to nothing.

_Though clearly Isabel's been doing well if she's able to afford a place here. _

He's not entirely sure what the average flight attendant's salary is, but maybe she was just good with money.

Her apartment is on the highest floor of the apartment building, reachable by the fire escape. He scowls a bit at the idea that just anyone could get in here if they so choose, and if she thinks that's a good enough deterrent than—

Jason has to stop and shake his head and remind himself that Isabel is gone. She'll never have to worry about break-ins again.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he jimmy's open the window and slips through.

⁂⁂⁂

Isabel's place has a lived-in feel that Jason is not familiar with.

Willis and Catherine's tiny apartment is a distant memory for him, and the handful of foster homes that followed don't even rate. Wayne Manor, while once home, was never exactly what one might call "homey"; and the less said about his time in the League, the better.

As for his network of safehouses, these are meant more for function and convenience than to encourage long-term comfortable living.

Very different from the room illuminated when Jason flicks on the lights.

Warm, inviting colors grace the walls, somehow blending well with living room furniture meant more for comfort than to match. In the kitchen, dishes dry on the rack because there's no dishwasher, while a vacuum cleaner lies forgotten in the hallway. There's no evidence of a maid or English butler the way Tim's place has; like Jason, Isabel was uncomfortable with being waited on.

Half of her kitchen table is buried beneath a sea of papers, piles of junk mail, receipts and a newspaper or two.

It's second nature for Jason to go through the detritus, though he's not entirely sure what he's looking for. When he doesn't find it, he slips into the kitchen, rifling through cupboards and drawers. Lots of people will stash small, important property in their kitchen, banking on would-be-intruders focusing on the obvious takes like televisions and computers. Since Jason isn't in a hurry, he has the luxury of searching through everything himself.

Apparently Isabel wasn't worried about theft since he finds nothing; frowning, he glances over to the fridge for potential clues. Magnets from what appears to be every country she's ever visited hold up notes against the chrome façade, along with pictures and business cards and—

Jason reaches out before he's aware of it, tracing his finger across the edge of the black and white printout that holds the prominent place of center. The sonogram picture is different from the one's he saw on cases before he died, or even the kind he sees on television. It's not simply a grainy outline of a vaguely baby shape, but a 3D image that details the features of the infant he held in his arms just last night.

He reaches out to take it off the fridge, then thinks better of it and backs away.

_Not like I need to keep_ _anything like that, I've seen the actual baby already._

He wanders over to the kitchen counter, sifts through more paper. There's an actual physical day planner there that's seen better days, pages ripped and bent and some stuck together. He pockets that, intending to go through it later; it might hold information about her friends and contacts.

_Speaking of…_

He studies the walls and surfaces of the unit, noting the sea of personal trinkets and photos of Isabel. Most of them are of her and a bunch of other, usually against the backdrop of a beach or bar lounge. Some of them include herself and Safiya—he recognizes one of the photos as having been taken on the edge of Robinson Park, in the area that's still safe and Poison Ivy free.

In all of them, she looks happy, which calms that lingering part of him that's worried his presence in her life had any kind of lasting trauma. Either she is—was—the most well-adjusted person ever, or she had a Wayne level of ability to pretend.

Studying the rest of her belongings along the bookshelves and coffee tables, something strikes him; in addition to the usual paperback bestsellers and gossip rags he would expect from someone of Isabel's age and interests, there are baby books tucked everywhere.

From parenting How-To guides, to early readers that are still in pristine, sometimes packaged condition. There are fairy tales and Spanish alphabet books and board books with various textures cut in the pages.

Like someone was gearing up to become Supermom.

_Which she was, wasn't she?_

Numbly, he wanders down the hall, glancing briefly into the master bedroom before his eyes are drawn to the second room. It feels like the bottom of his stomach has dropped out as he looks at the door, and the pretty, swirling pink script stenciled across it. Letters set between colorful flowers and balloons.

_Luisa._

Tentative, he nudges the door fully open and wanders into what is clearly a nursery. There's a crib set up, with a mobile of stars and planets, a changing table, rocking chair—quite a few of the mysterious objects he spied sitting in a pile on Tim's living room floor.

All of which speaks of a woman who very much wanted the baby currently residing in the Gotham General neonatal wing.

Jason sits down heavily on the rocking chair, barely hearing it creak beneath him as his thoughts play on repeat.

She wanted this.

But she didn't tell him.

Obviously she didn't want him involved.

But then why list him as the father?

Why make him her emergency contact, instead of her friend? It seems like an awfully calculated, purposeful move for someone that didn't want him in her child's life.

He gazes blearily around the nursery, eyes flitting past the typical soft and fuzzy and mostly pink stuffed animals and blankets. Everything in here was chosen with care as if picked directly from a catalog, and with intent.

Except for one thing.

Jason stands, reaches for something on top of a chest of drawers just beside a baby monitor.

The Red Hood plush toy is a ridiculous caricature, with a bulbous head and stubby arms. Toy companies have been making merchandise off the world's heroes since time immemorial, but he didn't realize that plushies were a thing.

_Let alone that there'd be a version of me included in the line._

His thumbs slide across the tiny stylized red bat on its chest; there are fabric holsters but no guns, of course.

It's the only item that seems out of place in the entire room.

Obviously placed here on purpose.

_But wouldn't that mean…?_

Mind reeling, Jason returns to the living room, more determined now to figure out Isabel's frame of mind. To know the thoughts behind her decisions. There's a folder among the medical stuff, with information relevant to her pregnancy—medical history, prescriptions—but nothing written in her hand.

_Which isn't surprising. Who keeps a journal these days when everything's online?_

That has him searching out her computer, which is set up in the corner of the living room on a tiny desk. He boots it up and studies the keyboard to see which keys are more faded than others.

Before he can make much headway guessing her lock-password, there's a _bang_ that has Jason whirling around. His instinct is to reach for his gun, but being mindful of his location thinks better of it.

Just as well, considering who the intruder is.

"What do you think you're doing here?!" Safiya demands from the doorway of the apartment. She's holding an aluminum baseball bat and wearing a fierce expression. "This is not your apartment! I will call the police if you don't—" She cuts off when she recognizes Jason. "You."

"Hi," he says, somewhat bemused.

She doesn't relax, narrowing her eyes at him; they are puffy and bloodshot, and he suspects she's been crying since leaving him and Tim at the hospital.

"How did you get in here?" she demands at last, suspicious but somehow bypassing the usual questions he'd expect. "I have only set of keys."

She brandishes the keychain in hand as though to make a point.

The utter lack of surprise or fear catches him off-guard; Jason falters for a minute thinking of a plausible lie to tell. And then he decides he doesn't have the energy.

"I picked the lock on the window," he tells her.

Safiya's eyes narrow. "They teach you that sort of thing in bodyguard school?"

_Nice lie, Drake. Obviously she didn't buy it._

"Can't all be taking bullets for the president."

"Right…" Safiya lowers the bat, but only incrementally. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to…see for myself," he finishes lamely, still not entirely sure how to answer the question.

"I understand." This time the fight goes completely out of her. She steps into the apartment, glancing around furtively, and then closes the door behind her as she comes inside. "You might have mentioned earlier you wanted to come. I could have given you the keys."

"Wasn't really thinking about it back then," he tells her, watching her set down the bat. "You're pretty intimidating for someone so small."

"This is Gotham," she retorts. "It would be stupid to be anything less than vigilant whether you have cause to fear or not."

"And you don't have cause to fear?"

"When one has a guaranteed death hanging over one's head, there is very little to fear."

Jason thinks of his time as Robin, of the danger and the close calls, and of his life now; the certainty of it ending in blood and fire and another goddamn plaque in the Cave.

He gets it. More than she knows.

"Fair," he acknowledges. He pauses, a bit awkward, and asks, "How are you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected," she sighs, looking around the room. "It does not seem real."

"You're telling me," Jason says, though it comes out as more of a sigh. He feels the tension in his shoulders, which have been pulled tight since Safiya first made her appearance, ease. "Have you had a chance to reach out to anyone?"

"Not yet. I've been…processing."

"If you need help…" he begins, uncertain about what exactly he's offering to do here.

"You have other things to worry about," she replies with a shake of her head.

_No kidding._

He recalls his conversation with Tim about the fate of the baby, and before he can think better of it, blurts out, "Do you know anything about her last boyfriend?"

Safiya gives him a sharp look. "Why? Are you going to try to convince him the baby is his?"

There's judgment there, not entirely unwarranted maybe.

"No. But maybe he and Isabel have—had mutual friends. People who might…"

_Take the baby._

He doesn't need to say it out loud, she clearly follows his thought process. This time there's no judgment, surprisingly.

"His name was Jonathan," she recalls. "Sutter, I think." Jason makes a note of that. "He's an accountant for one of the big firms downtown."

"Accountant, huh?"

_Guess she wanted someone the exact opposite of me the next time around…_

"Yes. They met at the hospital the last time the Joker escaped," Safiya explains. "He was being treated for that horrible gas, and Isabel was…"

She trails off, considering him carefully.

"Recovering from the bastard shooting her up with heroin," Jason says darkly. "Yeah, I was caught up in that myself. Not a night I want to revisit."

"I can't imagine why," Safiya says dryly. "Anyhow, they went on a few casual lunch dates and she said it might be getting serious, and then I didn't hear from her for a week. I'm guessing that's when she was with you. And then two weeks after that, they were together."

"How serious was it?"

"Serious enough, I think. She was happy." She pauses here, lower lip trembling and inhales deeply through her nose. Jason recognizes the look of someone trying to stave off tears. "Then it was over and she was alone. Shortly after she told me about the baby, and…well, you. Sort of."

Jason swallows, not even able to imagine what Isabel might have said about him. There's a long silence between them, both of their thoughts clearly on the woman whose presence is so pervasive in this room.

Safiya sniffs.

"Listen," she says at last. "I can see you want to do right by Luisa. I don't know what Isabel's reasons were for not telling you. But I don't think it's because you would harm a child. As long as you're acting as guardian to Luisa, I will make you the same offer I made her mother: I will help you as much as I am able. Just call me and I'll do my best to be there." She offers Jason a wan smile. "You are not alone in this."

"So I've been hearing," he replies heavily. "Still working on the believing."

There's a trilling noise and Safiya reaches for her pocket for her phone, sliding her thumb across the screen to silence it.

"Speaking of believing," she says. "I have to leave for prayers now. If you were anyone else, I'd worry you intended to steal and sell her belongings but given who your partner is…I doubt you're hurting for money."

Jason snorts. "That's one way of putting it."

"I'm also assuming you can let yourself out of here the same way you got in," she continues. "So I won't offer you my keys. Unless you intend to take over plant-watering duties?"

"Uh, no. I'm the opposite of a green thumb."

He doesn't mention that he's never taken care of a plant on his own, let alone a child. Probably she won't appreciate that kind of gallows humor.

"Alright then. I will see you around, I guess." She pauses in the doorway. "Although, the next time you come by, at least send a text message or something so I don't accidentally knock you out."

And with that, she's gone.

Jason shakes his head, mouth quirked upward in grim amusement. Knowing his luck, and his frame of mind, she'd actually manage it.

He doesn't move immediately upon finding himself alone again, feeling rather like the interlude with Safiya has broken through some of the mounting, breathless panic he had been feeling before.

His eyes catch upon the fridge again, and the sonogram picture there, and he physically shakes himself.

_Get back to work._

The computer in the corner is open on the login screen, and he goes to sit down, setting to work decrypting her password.

It doesn't take very long—she's not the kind of person to use something obvious like 'password', but a lot of civilians don't bother with the randomly generated string of numbers, letters and symbols. It takes about fifteen minutes for him to happen upon the word based on faded keys—a mashup of her parent's names and some numbers he supposes holds significance to her—and he's into her system.

It's a job he's had to do uncountable times in his life, scanning through private files and documents of murder victims or suspects. It's always had a kind of morbid quality to it before, but he's feeling that even more now.

He knew this person.

He knows if she was here—if she was still alive—she would not be happy with such an invasion of her privacy.

_But she's not here, is she. That's the whole problem._

He swallows, flipping through the digital folders; when nothing jumps out at him immediately, he decides to come back to it and instead opens her email program.

It's mostly a list of weekly work schedules and the requisite spam from subscriber lists, but then he notices there's a single file in the _Drafts_ folder that curiosity has him clicking a moment later.

_[Draft] rentabat at waynet dot com (no subject)_

The last date it was modified is the day she died. He clicks on it, eyes immediately flying to the first word—_Jason_—before stopping, breath catching. Because while this is exactly what he's been trying to find since he got here, it's also exactly what he _didn't_ want to find.

Dreading what he's about to discover, he takes a breath and braces himself to read the whole thing.

_Jason—_

_I don't know if you even use email or not, but I saw this on that ridiculous Rent-a-Bat sign the last time I was in California and figured I'd try. I'd call your cell, but I might screw up saying what I need to over the phone. Assuming you even pick up for me._

_At least this way, I might work up the nerve to press send. _

_I'm pregnant. About seven months now—_

He pauses, glancing again at the time of the email, because Isabel had been nine months pregnant when she died, which means she started this email months ago but never got around to sending it.

Never got around to, or never worked up the courage.

Just like Safiya said.

He goes back to reading.

_—About seven months now._

_It's a girl, and she's yours based on the dates the doctors gave me. I wasn't with anyone but you, unless Kori's people can get a person pregnant by just touching them._

_(The baby's perfectly human by the way, according to the tests.)_

_I didn't find out until weeks after we ended things, or I would have told you when we last spoke on the phone. After that, I didn't know how to tell you. About the baby or the fact, I've decided to keep her. _

_I was scared. For a lot of reasons that I'm sure you understand. I was worried you'd try to talk me out of this, and then I worried if anyone were to find out, they might try to use us against you. It's already happened once; it can happen again._

_There are rumors all over Gotham that the Joker's dead, but they've said that before. It's dangerous here, so much so that I've thought about leaving the city with her and starting over. Except, it's hard enough to do this Mom thing by yourself in the only place that's ever been home, let alone up and move somewhere you've got absolutely nothing. _

_And to be honest, I've never been the type to run away from something. _

_Which is why I'm embarrassed it's taken me so long to get in touch with you. _

_I'm not sure if I've been more worried that you'd want nothing to do with me or her, or the opposite. That you'll do the decent thing and give up everything you do—all the important stuff, saving innocent people and fighting aliens and taking out the worst criminals—just to be here. Because that's the type of person you are. You're hard because you have to be but inside, you're a good man and you've got a code. On that front, I can't think of a better man to have a child with. _

_But I also get that you might not want to or be able to be that person. And I understand all of that. I would never ask you to change your entire life because of this. You have a purpose and resources and plans I can barely imagine, but I think in some ways I'm a lot freer than you are._

_I'm lucky here, I have a friend to help me out in the first weeks, and my job has an excellent daycare program for when I'm off maternity leave. I have a support system and we will be alright on our own if you decide you can't or don't want to be a part of this._

_But I hope you'll want to. _

_I want her to meet you, whether it's now or years from now. A kid has a right to know her family. I lost mine too young, and you said you did too. I don't want that for our daughter._

_I've decided to call her Luisa, after my mother. I haven't chosen a middle name yet, in case you want some input on that, but otherwise I'll _

The email cuts off abruptly there, and he finds himself wondering what interrupted her, even though he can guess the reason. His brain is still struggling to compute her final words to him.

There's a lot to unpack, but the most startling thing is that Isabel wanted him to know.

She not only wanted this baby, but she wanted Jason to be in her life.

In _their_ lives, more to the point.

Stunned, he leans back in the chair and stares unseeing at the computer screen as he tries to sort out how he feels about all this.

He doesn't notice that hours have passed until the hospital contacts him hours later.

⁂⁂⁂

* * *

_Your feedback matters! I want to know what you think of my story, so feel free to leave kudos, a comment or as many of these emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!_

❤️️ = I love this story!  
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💐 = thank you for sharing this  
🍵 = tea spilled  
🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!  
🚔 = you're under arrest! the writing's too good!  
😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER  
😢 = you got me right in the feels  
! = mind blown  
:#: god damn cliffhanger  
😫 whyyyyyyy?!

_Baby is coming next chapter, I promise!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Here's your daily reminder to stay inside, wash your hands and not to hoard toilet paper! As a reward, enjoy another chapter of POA, featuring sass, subtle and not so subtle inklings of romance, and much-anticipated appearance of two other Bats!

* * *

"Have you seen this?!" Damian explodes, stalking into Tim's office with all the fury of a pit-bull wearing a thousand-dollar suit. His somewhat bruised face is red with fury as he slams of a piece of paper down on Tim's desk.

"Did we have an appointment?" Tim asks lightly. "Because otherwise, I need to call an exorcist about a demon problem."

"Stow your inappropriate humor, Drake, I just received a memo from our lawyers—"

"_You_ received a memo? You don't even work here officially. You were probably just sitting in B's office pretending to do your homework and then snooped in his inbox when his back was turned."

"A technicality that holds no bearing on this," the boy sniffs, waving the paper again. "The patent office is denying Wayne Enterprises claim for the personal water filtration device we filed for on Tuesday."

"What?" Tim demands, snatching the paper and glaring down at it; that was one of the projects he's been overseeing the past few months. "On what grounds?"

"LexCorp apparently filed for a similar product 24 hours before we did."

"Bullshit," Tim snaps. "As of last month, they weren't even out of the developmental stage on that."

He knows because he'd been to the factory chasing down a lead on a completely unrelated case as Red Robin and happened to catch sight of their prototype. It was nowhere near the quality that Luke Fox already perfected in the Wayne tech division.

"Apparently someone's been helping them out."

"Any idea who?"

"I can ferret out the traitor soon enough, and make them see the error of their ways," Damian says, smiling unpleasantly.

_Which could mean anything from destroying their legal existence, or a personal beat-down by Robin depending on his mood. _

"No," he says. "We'll figure out who did it, and why. Then we take it to Lucius."

"I would imagine the motive for the deceit is rather self-evident."

"It isn't always. Motive colors everything. For all we know, it could be a blackmail situation. I wouldn't put anything past LexCorp, or their R&D team."

"And the issue of the patent itself?" Damian demands, folding his arms. "This company has invested significant capital in developing the product; if LexCorp retains the patent, our profit margins this quarter will tank."

Tim smiles coolly. "They've invested a lot more than we did. Especially if they're paying off a corporate spy. I'll talk to Luke and his dad, but I think if we circulate the story we're placing the design schematics online to ensure anyone in need can construct their own unofficial versions of it—for humanitarian and innovative reasons of course—LexCorp will take the worse hit and with the good press WE gets, we can recoup."

"You don't actually intend to follow through with that, do you?" Damian asks, nose wrinkled in distaste. "That reeks of compromise."

"Of course we'll follow through. With the prototype designs, not the final versions. Profit was never the main goal of that project anyhow, so we can afford a delay on returns. With the sudden influx of bootlegged versions of the technology, owning the patent will no longer be the challenge, it will be providing the most efficient and functional model. Which ours is, given the time we spent developing it."

"So even if LexCorp releases their version, it will continue to underperform next to ours," Damian realizes. He thinks about it for a moment and then nods. "That's a semi-acceptable solution. Not enough justification for you to still be here, though."

_A brief, shining moment of an _almost_-compliment…and we're back to that again. _

"You know, if you're so concerned that the team in San Francisco is bereft of _management_, you could always fly down yourself."

"This is my city. I won't leave it." Which is the same argument he used last night; odd, considering Damian likes to be varied in his attacks on Tim. "Besides, we have all seen the results of the alternative."

Meaning their short-lived team-up where everyone compared them to each other and Damian split.

Tim raises an eyebrow at that.

_It almost sounds like he's…upset about that. Funny, he's never indicated he minded leaving the Titans when I came back. And half the time he's off doing whatever it is he does with John._

"Well, maybe if you hadn't been such a jerk to them, they wouldn't have been so eager to see the back of you," he points out, even as he immediately knows it's the wrong thing to say. Damian's expression, on the cusp of showing vulnerability, shuts down completely.

"I have learned it is futile to argue with stupidity, and that includes a preference for subpar leadership. Which you should be getting back to and cease wasting company time on whatever it is you don't actually contribute here."

Tim rolls his eyes, counts to ten in his head, and replies, "I have a case here, you know. I'm not leaving until that's done. And maybe if you stopped being such an ass about it and just came out and _asked_, I'd be happy to call the team and suggest giving you another chance."

"I don't require your pity!"

"That's not what—" Tim groans and pinches the bridge of his nose; why does every conversation with Damian that doesn't include weapons, always go pear-shaped? "Are you and B fighting again? Is that what this is?"

"Of course not!"

Twin spots of red indicate that's exactly what it is, and Tim groans internally.

_Exactly when did I take over from Dick as chief soother of family problems?_

Probably shortly after Dick "died" and went undercover with Spyral. Which he thinks is patently unfair, considering Cass is technically second-oldest, and Jason gives off more of that brother-vibe despite his abrasiveness.

_Not that that's particularly helpful now; he's got his own problems to deal with._

And of anyone in the family, Tim's the only one Damian interacts with almost as much as Dick, so maybe it's not surprising.

Before he can ruminate any more on that, his phone buzzes; it's from an unknown number, but Tim can guess who it's coming from based on the first words in the text message.

_\- Hospital called. Tests positive…_

There's more to it, but Damian's trying to read it upside down, so Tim snatches it up and reaches for his briefcase.

Apparently, the hospital put a rush on the paternity test results after all. Jason is probably freaking out right now.

"We can continue this whole you-asking-for-help-but-not-really-thing tomorrow."

"I'm not—that isn't—you presume—" the kid splutters as Tim closes his laptop, before recovering and demanding, "Where are you going?"

"Picking up Ives at St. Camillus," he lies with ease and mentally apologizes to his absent friend for using him as a cover. "He's had a hard go of it, so we're doing pizza and a _Mission Impossible _marathon." He pretends to pause. "You're welcome to come, but I'm telling you now we're not ordering vegetarian or vegan pizza for you. It's going to be a no vegetable zone."

In the past few years he's discovered the fastest way to get Damian to leave him alone is to welcome him to spend time with him. The kid is so set in his ways of insisting he loathes Tim that he'll go out of his way to refuse such an invitation on principle, even in cases where Tim suspects he wouldn't mind sticking around.

Tim thinks he has another year or two of that strategy working before Damian finally figures it out. Which could potentially be fun—he wonders what it would be like to have a younger brother that isn't constantly trying to cut the knees out from under him—but for now, he really wants to avoid it.

Luckily, in this Damian remains predictable.

"I'd rather not stunt my growth like you," the boy sneers.

Tim pretends that dig doesn't irritate him, the way it has been since he noticed Damian catching up to him in height. The kid is smug about it and likes to rub it in. Tim, however, has learned the best way to circumvent that is to make a joke of it.

"I thought everyone assumed it was the energy drinks," he grins.

"I'll be sure to keep an eye out on _your_ territory since you've decided to engage in an evening of sloth instead of important work," Damian grumbles and stalks out of his office.

"So that's a 'no' to pizza night?" Tim calls after him, fully aware of the answer.

"You're a disgrace, Drake."

"Make good choices!"

He allows himself a moment to bask in the satisfaction of ticking off the younger boy, before growing solemn again. He unlocks his phone to scan the whole message.

_\- Hospital called. Tests positive. Pickup tonight. Legal stuff figured out?_

Tim shakes his head; Jason might as well be organizing a stakeout for all the details he's given. It's a typical Bruce-ism they've all adopted for when they are too overwhelmed to deal with something. He wonders if Jason's even aware he's doing it.

He quickly types out a reply—_I'll pick you up and we'll go together. I have papers you need—_and heads for the company garage.

He remembers the process from when Steph had her baby and signed the adoption papers, and so has ensured the documents the hospital will require are on-hand. Social security and medical history forms, birth certificates, driver's license—a surface survey of identification to prove that Jason Ardila exists.

All Jason needs to do is memorize them on the drive over in case anyone decides to ask questions. Which they won't, since the fact of Jason being the baby's biological parent cuts down on a lot of paperwork for them, and Tim knows from personal experience that when it's possible to avoid paperwork, most organizations do.

Inching back home through Gotham's usual rush hour madness, Tim wonders if Jason will still be there when he gets to the apartment or if this is the point where he gives up and makes a run for it.

Halfway to the Nest, he gets another text from Jason, this one informing him he's not at Tim's place. A follow-up message lists an address Tim thinks he might have read recently, and it's only when he gets home that he recognizes it from the file he read on Isabel.

_Guess he decided to go out today after all. _

He quickly changes from his business suit to something casual and unassuming, not wanting to draw attention if he goes into the hospital with Jason, and then hunts up the car seat from the piles of baby things Tam bought. Once that's carefully installed into one of his less flashy cars, he heads out to the location Jason gave him.

He pulls up in front of a well-maintained condominium, and texts Jason about his arrival; though he knows he's there, he's still somewhat surprised when the older man materializes from behind the building, his face ashen and entire body pulled tight and tense.

As Jason gets into the car, Tim knows better than to ask him what's wrong or if he's alright.

Instead, he asks, "Have you eaten?"

Jason blinks at him like he's speaking a foreign language, and then processes. "Not yet."

Tim's eyebrows go up at that because usually, it's him that has to be reminded of eating; Jason's one of those people that has to eat every three hours, or they become ornery.

He spares a moment to wonder where he picked up that bit of knowledge, and then suggests, "We can stop for food first if you want." There's a place on the Upper Eastside where Red Hood has been known to frequent. "We can take as long as you want."

"If I eat anything right now, I'm going to throw up," Jason informs him. "I want to just get this over with."

"Right." He can understand that. "Okay, on that note—" Tim strains behind the seat, finagling the folder he stuck there with only the slightest pulled muscle, "—here."

He hands Jason the folder of documents.

"These are all the official stuff they might ask you for, though I doubt we'll need all of them today," he explains. "I also included a list of social media sites you're now registered on and tweaked your membership dates to exist retroactively, though that's more for you and not the hospital."

Jason makes a face. "You gave me a Facebook account."

"Having one is almost more proof of your existence than having a passport these days," Tim replies. "Which you still need to get, but we can hold off on that for a little longer. Everything here is just to throw off anyone from social services or the government if they decide to investigate you while we're coming up with the long-term plan. And if we need an ironclad background, we can bring Oracle in on this."

Jason's expression becomes darker.

"Obviously I know you want that to be a last resort," Tim says quickly. "But just keep in mind it's an option. And O's pretty good at keeping secrets from the rest of the family too, you know."

The older man flips through the documents again and shakes his head. "This is pretty comprehensive considering the kid's not hanging around here for long."

"Trust me, if you want to get her out of the hospital, it's going to have to be that comprehensive."

It looks like Jason has a comment for that, probably about how he doesn't _want_ to take her from the hospital, but he visibly buries it and focusses on getting familiar with his new background.

The rest of the drive is silent and tense, and not for the first time Tim questions the wisdom in getting involved at all. Out of everyone in the family to help Jason through a tough emotional spot, Tim always considers himself the last resort; even Damian has more in common with Jason. On the other hand, with _this_ particular scenario, maybe there is no right person to help.

_Luck of the draw, I guess…_

The tension in the car ratchets up tenfold as they pull into the hospital parking lot. Tim makes a judgment call to not simply drop Jason off on his own this time and even offers to carry the baby-carrier with him into the building, though Jason declines.

Probably needs something to do with his hands.

Tim feels a modicum of relief at that; the contraption is bulky and seems too big for the baby he held in his arms yesterday. Knowing him, he'd probably drop it and send Jason into a panic attack…

They head to the neonatal section in silence, and when they get there Tim's the one who speaks to the receptionist. She hands him a clipboard with a bunch of release forms and waivers, then assures him the doctor will be with them shortly, before pointing them toward the waiting area.

Once seated, Tim divides up the forms and offers Jason a spare pen from his jacket pocket.

"This stuff's all insurance and stuff," he tells him. "I can fill them out for you."

"I said I was going to handle it."

"Did I say I was putting _my_ information down on it?"

Jason scowls. "I hope you know how creepy it is you know so much about me."

"Creepy, but useful," Tim retorts and shoves a different form at Jason. "This is all family and medical stuff. That's on you."

"How generous," Jason deadpans, though he takes the paper and reads through it.

Despite having the majority of the forms, Tim finishes long before Jason does. When he glances over to see what's keeping him, he realizes that while everything else is filled out, he seems stuck on the name part of the questionnaire.

"You almost done?" he prompts, instead of asking if he's alright.

Jason visibly shakes himself, jots something down on the paper, and practically shoves it back into Tim's hands. "Yeah. All good."

Tim glances at the form, noting that in a fit of inspiration, Jason has added _Isabel_ as the child's middle name.

As if expecting Tim to comment, he mutters, "Wherever she ends up, she should at least have a part of her mom."

"I didn't say anything."

He takes the documents back to the receptionist to be copied and filed, before returning to sit with Jason.

"It's a nice name," he offers after a while. "Luisa Isabel." He considers. "We can call her Isa. It works for both."

"Shit. Jason blinks. "I didn't think about that. Maybe it's not too late to change it."

"I wasn't making fun, you know. It's a decent nickname."

Jason shoots him a sharp look. "What did I say about getting attached?"

"Why do you even care? Whoever ends up taking her might change it anyway."

That comment makes Jason frown, as if he didn't consider it, but if he has anything to reply, it's cut off when a nurse appears and calls out Jason's name.

"Right this way," she beams at them, leading them to the hallway outside of an observation room; she promises to return in a moment.

Jason and Tim look inside, where there are rows of infants in clear cradles. The nurse stops in front of one of them—labeled _Baby Ardila_—and picks up the pink swaddled infant.

"Mr. Ardila," a familiar voice interrupts, and they glance up as Dr. Kerry makes an appearance. He hesitates upon meeting Tim's gaze, clearly wanting to keep to the privacy he requested yesterday. "Mr…"

"Draper," Tim supplies smoothly, glad for the attempt.

"Right." The man shakes his head and returns his attention to Jason. "As you're aware, we did receive the tests back confirming the paternity. All that's left is to release her into your custody, though I do have a few last-minute matters to discuss."

"Sure," Jason says tightly.

"Don't worry, there's nothing wrong. She's in excellent health," the doctor assures them, as Jason fiddles with the baby carrier. He seems to be unsure if he should carry it by the handle or in his massive arms.

_It would be kind of funny if he wasn't so terrified. _

"Her Apgar scores are perfect, she's already had her Vitamin K injection and shots against Hepatitis B—all of which was arranged and signed off on before the birth," he adds quickly, wary like he's expecting them to rage at him for vaccinating the child.

"Good," Jason says, probably because it's one less thing to worry about.

Kerry appears relieved, and continues, "She'll have a series of injections and boosters she'll be needing, but her pediatrician will give you all of that information when you bring her for her check-up a week from now—" Kerry cuts himself off as if remembering the situation. "I can give you several referrals if you haven't selected one yet."

"Thank you, but that's unnecessary," Tim says. "We have a family physician."

Kerry glances at Jason, as if unsure if he should be deferring that decision to Tim considering the kid's paternity, but Jason nods. "I think that's probably the only thing we for-sure have covered."

_Not entirely sure Leslie's area is babies, but she's still the only doctor worth trusting in this city. Jason knows it too._

"Very well," the man says with a hint of doubt in his voice. He appears to debate with himself about something for a moment and then squares his shoulders. "We do have a social worker on-site if you change your mind about adoption."

"No," Jason says.

Kerry sighs. "Mr. Ardila, if you'll pardon my input—you're young. And given the circumstances, this is quite a shock. It's admirable you want to do the right thing and step up to your responsibilities, but it would be remiss of me not to remind you to do what's best for the child _and _yourself as well. If at any time you think you can't do this, you have options. It's better to figure out what you want to do now while she's so young than once she's had time to bond with you."

Jason looks torn by either prospect, so Tim cuts in with a polite, "Thank you, doctor. We're aware of our options. As you said, this has been quite a shock, and we have a lot do discuss. However, we would rather the baby not be left indefinitely in the hospital while we do that. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course." Kerry clears his throat, uncomfortable. "The attending nurse has a few papers to give you, commonly asked questions and the like. Just an overview of care for the next week or so, but if there's any concern—anything at all—I've included my emergency phone number and email."

"Thank you."

He hesitates a further second, before excusing himself. There's hardly any time to process that, before the nurse has returned, Luisa in her arms.

"Here she is," she murmurs softly, almost a coo as she presents the baby to them.

When Jason hesitates a half-second too long, Tim immediately reaches out to pick up the swaddled infant. He may have done a little bit of research and YouTubing earlier to ensure a little more confidence when holding her.

Today, Luisa's eyes are actually open—barely—though unfocussed. She has no reaction for Tim other than a slight scrunching of her nose and futile wriggle against the blankets keeping her wrapped like a baby burrito. Her skin's blotchy and a bit greasy looking, and she still resembles a potato, though maybe a bit less wrinkled today.

Jason puts the carrier down, and while he appears intent on whatever the nurse is telling him—either congratulations or the infant care Kerry promised—Tim busies himself with figuring out how to put the infant in the carrier.

_Does she really need that many straps and buckles to keep her in? It's not like she'll even have the coordination to escape for another two years…_

Eventually, he manages it, however, and picks up the carrier by the handle; he sees now why Jason felt so awkward with it before, it doesn't exactly feel convenient.

"…and that's it," the nurse is saying, while Jason nods.

_I highly doubt that's it._

He doesn't say that out loud, though, if only for Jason's sake; instead, he smiles and says, "Thanks for everything."

"You take care now," she admonishes. "The first week is hard on new parents."

"No kidding," Jason replies with a laugh that anyone else might call nervous, but which Tim recognizes as bordering hysteria.

Time to leave. "I've got no doubt we'll manage. We've been in tougher situations."

That seems to penetrate some of the panic the other man is working himself into. He blinks as if suddenly remembering who he is and how much they've survived.

"Yeah," he agrees, a little shaky but surer. "We have." He takes a deep breath, offers an actual attempt at a charming smile at the nurse, before turning to Tim. "We should get going."

"We should."

He still makes no move to take the carrier, but Tim doesn't comment on it; he's sure in the next days and weeks Jason will be easier around the baby. But right now, he's not able to do it, and that's the whole point to Tim being there.

They turn to leave, baby safely in her carrier between them; when the nurse calls out a parting, "Congratulations!", Tim pretends he doesn't notice Jason flinch.

⁂⁂⁂

After a chillingly silent drive back to the apartment, they find Tam waiting for them. Tim finds himself making a mental note to give her a raise for just _knowing_ when he's going to need her.

"I came bearing Chinese food," she announces as they clamber through the secret door. "I wasn't sure you'd be hungry after this or not. So, take as much or as little as you want. I bought a lot because I figure you guys are going to be hella busy the next few days, and food runs aren't going to be a priority and—" She pauses as they draw near, and Jason places the carrier square in the center of the island in the kitchen. "Is this her?"

"No, it's the other illegitimate child I found out about this week," Jason mutters tiredly.

"How the heck am I supposed to know what's normal for you?" Tam shakes her head, eyes riveted on the baby. She reaches out lightly to stroke the edge of the baby's cap. "What's her name?"

"Luisa."

"She's beautiful."

"How can you tell?" Tim asks, considering the ruddy, squished face.

Tam smacks him in the shoulder. "Don't be mean."

"I'm not being mean! I seriously can't see it. Is this a woman thing?"

That earns him another smack.

The baby, who has been silent the whole ride from the hospital, suddenly begins to cry. The sound starts as a mild bleating but quickly grows louder.

"See? You offended her," Tam says.

"You're so funny," Tim grumbles.

"Is that the 'I'm hungry cry', or the 'I'm wet' cry?" Jason wonders.

The prospect of either is unpleasant in different ways.

"Could be either. One of us should change her while the other gets something to eat—you did buy formula, right?"

"Of course I did," Tam rolls her eyes. "I didn't think either of you was going to start spontaneously lactating."

"Thank you for that imagery," Tim says, having to pitch his voice a little louder over the crying. "So, who's doing what?"

"Do either of you even know how to change a diaper?"

"Yes," both men reply and then eye each other in surprise.

"There were a lot of families with kids in my building growin' up," Jason defends himself. "Babysittin' was one of the few jobs a kid like me could get paid for under the table." He eyes the infant. "They were all way bigger than this, though."

"I'm sure the concept's the same," Tim replies. "Remind me to tell you about the time B was stuck carrying a baby around with him all night."

"He took a _baby_ on patrol_?_" Jason demands, indignant.

"There was nowhere safe to leave it. Among others, Ra's al Ghul was looking for it."

"Oh, _him_," Tam contempts, earning a bemused glance from Jason.

"One of the most dangerous men in the world, and _that_'s your reaction?"

"I've filled my quota of gibbering panic for a lifetime," she answers.

Jason shrugs, acknowledging the point, and then glances at Tim. Hesitant, he holds out a fist. "Loser gets diapers?"

It takes a minute.

"Best two out of three," Tim agrees.

"Are you kidding right now," Tam groans, like she's considering pulling at her hair.

Two throws later and Jason is muttering darkly as he goes digging for the box of diapers, while Tim juggles a container of formula and the package of new bottles that he needs to clean first. Tam is holding Luisa ("I'm playing nursemaid exactly _once_," she warns with a dangerous look in her eye. "Now get your sh—stuff together."), gravitating back and forth between the two men and wincing as Isa's decibel level increases impressively.

While Tim cleans unpacks and starts cleaning the bottles, following directions from an online guide, Jason sets up his supplies on the living room coffee table. After Tam carefully transfers the tiny, squalling creature into his arms, Jason takes a minute or so to study her.

"I don't smell anything," he says, uncertain. "She could just be wet."

"Still means you have to change her," Tam reminds him.

"I'm getting' there!"

"What's that stuff all over her? Are you supposed to bathe her?"

"No, you're not supposed to bathe them for at least 24 hours," Tim calls from the kitchen. "That stuff's apparently good for the skin or something. Even then, I think we're going to stick to sponge baths for the foreseeable future."

"Wet baby means slippery baby," Jason agrees. "So no."

"Good call," Tam says.

By the time Tim has boiled the new bottles and plastic nipples long enough to make sure they're sterilized and prepared the formula, Jason's managed to change the baby and get her into one of the impossibly small onesies from the baby things.

"Since she's still crying, I'm guessing it wasn't a diaper issue," Tim remarks, testing to ensure neither the nipple or the formula inside is too hot, before handing over the bottle. "Make sure you keep her head higher than her stomach—"

"I have done this before, you know. Yesterday, even."

"Well, you looked unsure."

"I'll remind you what you look like next time _you_ hold her."

But there's less bite in Jason's tone than might be normal, his attention clearly on keeping the infant well-positioned in the crook of his arm and trying to tempt her to latch on to the nipple. Not for the first time does Tim think Jason looks too big to be allowed to hold something so tiny—even if he knows that those hands are capable of some pretty delicate handling.

He's seen the bombs the Red Hood has made; the skill it takes for such delicate work is nothing short of art, whatever Batman might think about it.

For some reason, everyone is quiet throughout the ordeal to feed her; it almost feels like everyone is holding their breath.

It's a bit of a chore getting her to take the nipple, and even when she does, she keeps stopping every so often and turning away. Her eyes remain unfocused and drowsy, and despite her earlier complaints, she doesn't seem interested in eating. In fact, she seems to nod off before she takes eve the minimum amount recommended.

"Why is she fallin' asleep? She's hungry, she should be eatin'," Jason complains—_frets_, actually.

"Maybe she's more tired than she is hungry," Tim suggests.

"She did just go through birth," Tam agrees.

"Yeah, she'll probably be out of it for another day or two." Tim carries the unfinished bottle over to the sink; he'll wash it out later. "Anyway, all the forums say we need to feed her every two or three hours, so we can try again later. Maybe she'll be hungrier."

"Speaking of later," Tam says, glancing at her watch. "We have a meeting at eight o'clock tomorrow. I need to go over your presentation once more and make sure all the numbers add up."

"My numbers always add up."

"Uh, yeah. Because I check them." She's wandered over to the hall closet to grab her coat by the time Tim gets up to walk her out.

"Thanks for all of this," he says quietly. "Not just the presentation. The food, and the picking up supplies and everything."

"Hawaii," she replies.

"…What?"

"It's where you're sending me after this fiscal quarter," she replies. "Two weeks, all-inclusive, presidential suite."

"I'll make the call personally," he promises, opening the door. "See you tomorrow."

"Take care of the baby. And Luisa too."

Tim chokes back a laugh and just hopes Jason didn't hear that. He watches for a few seconds as Tam gets into the back of an Uber, and then goes back into the apartment.

It sort of feels like losing an ally once she's gone.

Jason is sitting back on the couch now, not for comfort but seemingly to prop himself up while he holds Isa, staring down at her as if she might suddenly rear up and bite him. Which is unlikely, since she's conked out again.

_Unlikely, considering she's down for the count again._

"So what are the odds you set up somewhere for her to sleep while you were here this morning?"

"Slim to none," Jason replies darkly.

Something passes across his face—like grief—and Tim remembers where he picked Jason up. It occurs to him he hasn't even asked yet what he was doing there.

_He'll tell me when he's ready. Or he won't. It's not really my business how he says goodbye to the mother of his child…_

"Alright. Well." Tim considers the boxes. "I don't know about you, but I'm not in the mood to build a crib tonight. "Either she sleeps in the carrier all night, or…I don't know, we could make something temporary for her in your room."

"Right, because I'm not worried enough about crushin' her just in my hands, you think I'm putting' her in the same bed as me?" Jason huffs.

"Well, you'd think with enough pillows on all sides of her—"

"Just get me some blankets and a laundry basket—assumin' you _own_ a laundry basket."

"Of course I own a laundry basket," Tim rolls his eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to wash my own clothes myself."

"But foldin' them's still a stretch I take it."

"Why are you complaining? No folded clothes frees up valuable basket space for accidental baby acquisition," Tim says. "Though I never would have thought to make a crib from a laundry basket."

"Yeah, because you grew up rich. You think workin' moms in the Alley can spend a hundred bucks on a crib when they've got mouths to feed?"

"Guess not," Tim allows, and goes to get the required supplies.

Once in the guestroom, he considers for a while where to place the makeshift crib, before shifting one of the night tables out of the way. By the time he finishes padding and folding blankets to ensure adequate padding, Jason has appeared in the room.

As he places the infant in the soft space and begins to tuck her in, Tim says, "Don't put the blankets around her too tight."

"I know."

"And you should take off that cap, so she doesn't overheat—"

"_I know_!" Jason hisses, although Tim doubts very much that he does. Still, he carefully removes the snug little hat the baby has worn since the hospital.

They both pause, staring.

"Why does her head look like that?" Jason asks after a beat, wary. "Did something happen? Did someone drop her, or…?" He might not be on board with this whole impromptu-parent thing, but clearly the idea of someone dropping a baby and walking away doesn't sit well with him.

"That's normal," Tim tells him, trying to sound like he's always known this and didn't just read it on the internet yesterday. "It will go away."

"Conehead baby is normal?"

"Exactly how do you expect a baby to fit through the birth canal? The plates in her skull will shift back into place as her brain grows, and they'll eventually harden. But for now, they're still not fused."

Jason makes a face. "That's a messed up system."

"Well, so far in billions of years of mammals giving birth evolution hasn't been able to come up with anything better, so…"

Jason shakes his head, looking faintly disturbed.

"I'm going to go open up the baby monitors I saw downstairs," Tim says. "Be right back."

Jason doesn't reply.

As Tim leaves the room, he spies the older man hesitantly running a finger across Isa's cheek like he's not sure what to do. The baby turns in the direction of his finger in her sleep.

When he returns, though, Jason is sitting at the edge of his bed, several feet away from the baby, and staring off into the distance. Tim tries not to interrupt him as he sets up one monitor on the table beside the basket.

"She was going to tell me."

Tim blinks. "What?"

"Isabel," Jason replies, still not entirely focused. "She was planning to tell me about the baby. She wanted me in her life. If she hadn't…"

He trails off, shaking his head.

_If she hadn't died._

Tim knows better than to offer sympathy. Instead, he asks, "How do you know?"

"She left a note. More an email. She was going to send it but…" he trails off and shrugs. "Plans change, I guess."

"Do they?" Tim keeps a careful tone. "For you, I mean. About what you're going to do?"

Jason doesn't answer right away, to the point that Tim wonders if he even heard them. Then,

"I don't know," he says at last. "No. Maybe if she lived, it might be different." He meets Tim's eyes, like he's expecting judgment, and asks, "What would you do?"

"No idea," Tim replies in total honesty. "I've never even considered being a parent."

"Really? Not once?"

"No."

"Even when Blondie got knocked up?" Off Tim's surprised look, he adds, "Yeah, I heard about that. Never thought about doing the 'right' thing? Getting married, settling down, playing dad?"

"No. Our lives were too complicated—_are_ too complicated."

"They weren't always."

Tim snorts a mirthless laugh. "My life was always complicated. My parents weren't exactly the gold standard for raising kids, and then after—well, I never figured any of us would live long enough to have children."

This time it's Jason that gives a huff of almost laughter.

"There I go again," he drawls, "breaking the mold."

"Setting impossible standards," Tim agrees. "Spontaneous resurrection, improbable baby—next thing you'll singlehandedly bring about world peace."

"Whoa, now, let's not get crazy," Jason says, pretending concern. "Gotta leave something for the Justice League to do in their abundant spare time."

"Fair point." Tim glances out the window; the sky is clear tonight, no sign of the bat signal, but he knows better than to think Gotham is quiet. He checks the time on his phone and nods to himself. "Speaking of spare time, I'm going to head out for a few hours."

"Patrol?"

"Actually, I think I'll see what my friend Ives is up to." He gives Jason a quick summary of his conversation with Damian. "Plausible deniability and all. I doubt demon brat will be interested enough to check, but you never know when that Wayne paranoid will set in."

"Right," Jason says, a distracted note in his voice.

Tim hesitates, watching Jason fiddle awkwardly with the baby monitor. "I don't have to, though. If you need me to, I can just stick around here. There's still preliminary research to do for that mob case, or I can start checking into potential families…"

"No. I'm fine. Just do whatever it is you normally do."

"Try to sound a little more convincing there, Todd."

"Screw you."

Tim rolls his eyes and heads for the door. "I'm off then. Probably still won't be a late night, though, I got barely more sleep than you."

"Even an hour is more…"

"Still. If you want, I can feed and check on her when I get back, so you don't have to get up with her. Just promise you won't, like, shoot me or something if I come into your room while you're asleep."

Jason looks almost disgusted. "You think I'm actually keeping a gun anywhere near me while there's a baby in the room?"

The indignation on his face is almost endearing, and Tim can't fight the temptation to tease. "Aw, look, your Bruce is showing."

Jason brandishes the monitor. "So help me, I'll stuff this down your throat."

"But then you can't hear my pearls of wisdom," Tim shoots back, though he's quickly backing out of the room. "And you know you're dying to."

"About as much as I'd like to move to Antarctica."

"I'm sure Clark has enough space in the Fortress of Solitude."

"Get out of here before I kill you and it wakes up the baby."

⁂⁂⁂

After two movies and being so distracted that Ives kicks his ass at Mario Kart, Tim returns to his apartment. It's not very late in vigilante time—two o'clock, as promised—and he's sort of half expecting Jason to be still awake when he gets back.

The older man is sitting on the couch in the living room, flipping absently through the channels, eye flicking to the baby-monitor beside him every few seconds like he's prepared to jump into action if he hears a cry.

"Has she been keeping you up?" Tim asks as he strides over.

Jason blinks blearily at him. "No."

"Then why don't you grab some sleep while you can? There's no point staying up if you don't have to."

"First of all—fuck you. Second of all, that's rich comin' from the family insomniac. And third, I'm havin' trouble shuttin' my brain off, okay? It's still tryin' to figure out if I didn't accidentally travel to another alternate reality of something."

A sharp, distorted cry echoes over the monitor and Jason really does jump.

"Stay put," Tim tells him, already heading for the stairs. "I'll get her."

It's still surprising when Jason listens to him, which Tim puts down to being in a desperate situation. He hopes that having someone else in the apartment to help with Isa will diminish whatever anxiety has the older man wound so tight.

Once upstairs, Tim slips into the guestroom and scoops her into his arm, wincing at the shrill squealing cry. After a quick check of her diaper—blessedly empty—he carries her still crying form downstairs to prepare a bottle for her.

Jason winces when they appear and—he doesn't _really_ run away, but he makes a hasty exit over the stairs.

Tim huffs under his breath. "It's not like she's a _bomb_, Jason. Geeze."

Though she is doing an excellent job imitating a percussion grenade while they wait for the bottle of formula to warm up in the microwave, so maybe there are some similarities.

"It was thirty seconds, not thirty years, calm down," he grumbles as she latches onto the plastic nipple like a starving animal.

He watches her nurse for a few minutes, brows furrowed and mind on Jason.

_I know he's still adjusting, but at some point, it's got to start sinking in, right? I mean, he's not even planning on keeping her, it's all temporary, so there's no reason for him to be this out of it. _

Unless there's more going on than just a surprise baby—which, given Jason's past and present activities, could very well the issue.

_I wonder how hard he'd punch me if I suggested he talk to someone about this?_

Not Dick, obviously; calling him has always been one of Tim's major avenues of support when he's going through hard times, but he knows Jason would rather crawl through broken glass than open up to his predecessor.

_Sometimes I think Jason's relationship with Dick is a hundred times more complicated than it is with anyone else in the family…_

Isa gives a dissatisfied whimper and turns her face away from the bottle. Tim frowns, seeing that she's barely drunk a quarter of it, and tries to tempt her to take another, but she refuses, already going dozy and limp with sleep.

"Really? After all that? You raise holy hell and you don't even finish it?" He snorts. "You really are his."

It's an effort to get the sleepy infant to burp, but he manages it; she passes out before he's even made it back up the stairs and back to Jason's room.

Despite having explicit permission to enter without knocking, Tim's still uneasy broaching Jason's personal space. Especially since Tim can tell he's not asleep, even if he's lying on his bad, holding a pillow over his face like he's trying to block everything out.

Tim carefully arranges the baby back in her basket-bassinet, and quietly asks Jason, "Need anything else?"

Jason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "Another life", and turns his back on both Tim and the baby.

And really, what can he even say to that?

It's a problem for some other time.

Tim takes a quick shower, before faceplanting onto his unmade bed. The exhaustion he's been ignoring for the past day or so finally hits him, and he passes out without even getting up to turn off the lights.

By some miracle, he gets six hours of uninterrupted sleep before his alarm goes off later that morning. He doesn't feel fully rested, but he gave up on chasing that sensation two Robins ago.

After dressing and taming his hair (it might be time for a haircut soon), he spends an extra ten minutes checking the bruises on his face—they've gone from dark purple to blue—and applying a liberal amount of cover-up. A beat later, he adds a bit of eyeliner as well, to give an appearance of alertness that he doesn't quite feel.

Heading downstairs his nose twitches as he becomes cognizant of an unfamiliar smell.

_Of...someone's cooking? _

He finds Jason in his kitchen, flipping pancakes. The baby carrier is in the middle of the kitchen island, Isa sleeping soundly in a cocoon of blankets.

Instead of asking Jason why he's cooking, Tim grabs a coffee cup from the cupboard and turns on his Keurig. "How was the first night?"

He doesn't expect Jason to respond beyond irritated grunting, and so is surprised when he answers.

"Took me an hour to fall asleep," he says. "Then at four she woke me up…then at six…and then just now. So, I decided, screw it, I'm hungry anyway. And about the only thing you have all the ingredients for are pancakes." He shoots Tim a judging look. "I don't even think you have maple syrup. It's a disgrace."

"I think there might be corn syrup in the pantry?"

"_Disgrace_," Jason repeats.

Tim ignores him and glances at the two dozen pancakes he's caught sight of behind Jason's bulk. "Exactly how many people are you feeding?"

Something that might be a blush darkens Jason's cheeks.

"I _may_ have gotten a little distracted," he admits defensively. "But I needed something mindless to do and it worked, so just…shut up and eat."

He shoves a plate with three pancakes at Tim, who doesn't have the heart to tell Jason he doesn't really eat breakfast. Instead, he goes looking for the much-maligned corn syrup and takes the smallest pancake he can find in the bunch.

It's only polite, after all.

Isa starts to whimper again and Jason groans. "There is _no way_ you're hungry again, I _just_ fed you."

Instead, he carts her over to the coffee table—the vintage Henredon table Tim actually spent a couple of weeks tracking down because it resembled one his parents had when he was a child—has since yesterday seemingly become the chosen changing station.

There are piles of fresh diapers and wipes spread out on it, clearly from earlier changes, and there's a pail next to it, along with the detritus of the packaging it was in.

"That can't be sanitary," Tim says. "Or environmentally friendly."

"Yeah, well, your highness can shell out for cloth diapers and hire a service to clean them if that's your issue."

Tim rolls his eyes but wisely doesn't reply to that, instead busying himself with finishing off the giant pancake and a much-needed cup of coffee.

"Ugh," he hears Jason say after a while. "Are we sure this is a human child? Because what's coming out of her doesn't look human."

Tim chokes on a large lump of pancake and glares across the room. "Yes, thanks for that while I'm eating."

"As if your stomach hasn't been tested by many a murder scene."

"Never while I was eating," Tim grumbles and pushes his plate away. He hunts down a travel mug for his _second_ much-needed cup of coffee and then grabs his messenger bag from the hook on the door.

He's halfway headed for the garage when he pauses and considers Jason again.

"Do you need me to stay?" he asks. "I mean, it's the first day you're doing this, so—"

"I don't need you holding my hand, Drake," Jason deadpans, "especially since you're not going to be here during the day anyway. No point in getting used to a crutch."

Tim isn't sure he likes that comparison.

"You sure?"

"I figured out how to defuse bombs, I can figure this out."

"Okay…but Safiya did give you her number, right? You know there's no shame in calling her if you're stuck." That earns him a withering glare. "Just saying." He offers Jason a mock-salute. "Enjoy learning how to baby."

"Fuck you."

"Language!"

"She's two days old, she doesn't know what the hell I'm sayin'."

"A-plus childcare, Mary Poppins," Tim mutters—under his breath because he doesn't actually want to be punched this early in the morning—and finally leaves.

Once at the office, he falls into his usual routine—perfunctory greetings to people he should only know by sight but for whom he has done extensive background checks, sitting in a board meeting and chewing out the legal team for not filing their water-filter patent faster (he may have brushed it off to spare people the wrath of Damian, but he fully understands the kid's anger), a stop at the break-room for a third cup of coffee and to keep an ear out for the office gossip.

Tam is waiting in his office when he finally settles in for the rest of the morning.

"How's everything going at home?" she asks, closing the door behind her. She hands him his schedule for the day and a checklist of phone calls to return and products that require oversight.

"As well as can be expected," he replies, sipping his coffee. "It's an adjustment."

"No kidding. You go from single, introvert shut-in bachelor to living with _Dream Daddy_ overnight."

Tim promptly inhales and then spits out very hot coffee, only narrowly missing a stack of contracts that need reviewing.

Tam's eyes flick to the mess. "I'm not cleaning that up."

"Why would you _say_ that?" he splutters as his brain frantically tries to reboot after the shock.

"Because it's not my job to clean up after the functional man-child that is my boss?"

"Not that." He glares. "Filling my brain with disturbing notions."

"Is the disturbing notion that I said it, or that you know what _Dream Daddy_ is?"

"The disturbing thing is that you think my—" He pauses, hesitant to use the word 'brother' in relation to Jason, if only because it feels wrong for some inexplicable reason. 'Friend' is also a gross over-estimation of their relationship. "—new roommate is attractive."

"Well, some of us have eyes," Tam shrugs.

"And some of us have criteria for what we find attractive beyond looks."

"Right. Forgot. You like the dangerous types that try to kill you first and ask questions later."

Tim opens his mouth to object, and then tilts his head to one side to acknowledge it: given his recent dating history, she's not wrong. "You forget that type tends to be _female_. As in something my new _roommate_ most definitely is not."

"Puh-_lease_, I've seen you when you're hanging out with Connor. You can't tell me that's a hundred percent platonic."

"It is!"

"If you say so," Tam replies. "But _you_ forget—I've kissed you. And I've never felt less spark or even interest in a guy before."

"Because I was _surprised_," Tim grouses. "That doesn't mean I don't like women. You've _met_ Stephanie."

"Yeah, but she told me she hit you in the face with a brick the first time you two met."

"I regret ever introducing you to each other," Tim groans, pressing his face into his hands. "Look, you're the one who decided us dating would be a bad idea, so don't go taking that as evidence that I'm gay."

"First of all, our dating _would_ be a bad idea, and not even just because of the inevitable involvement of ninjas or Vicki Vale's byline. I've already explained why—_which you agreed with at the time. _And second of all, I never said you were gay, I said you had a type. Lynx tried to break you with a sword, Connor broke your arm, and as I said, there was Steph…Point is, gender has nothing to do with it, you're just a masochist."

"I must be since I put up with you," he sighs. "Let me be clear: I have no interest, nor will I ever have interest in…my new roommate. And this is _so_ far from the appropriate place to talk about this stuff."

"And he pulls the 'boss' card," Tam narrates sarcastically. "Fine, I'll leave it alone. For now. Only because I have a conference call with my opposite number in Hong Kong." She heads out but can't resist throwing an over-dramatic sigh over her shoulder. "Maybe if I had the ability to throw you through a wall, you and I would have had a chance. Guess we'll never know."

She opens the door to the office, and then she's gone, leaving Tim to parse the utterly bewildering turn to the conversation.

"How did we even _get_ on that topic?" he mutters to himself, searching his desk for his glasses.

_God, she can _never_ find out that Jason tried to kill me that first time we met. I'll never hear the end of it. Even if she's completely wrong about all this, I'll have to deal with knowing looks the rest of my life…_

Tim makes a valiant effort to lose himself in his work after that, if only to erase the memory of Jason being called 'daddy' by another adult. He cleans up his desk as best he can, wrinkling his nose at the idea the place is going to smell like stale coffee for a while, and then does a quick triage of what work needs to be done now and what can wait.

He manages to lose himself for a few hours, working even through lunch, before setting aside time to wrestle with the current problem in his life: namely, helping Jason find someone to step in and deal with the baby situation.

It's not like a business deal or falling stock options. A human being doesn't come with cheat codes or hacks.

_Well…not directly._

Tim grins to himself and opens an encrypted server to access to the CPS servers. Jason's adamant about not working through the system, but that doesn't mean they can't investigate families within the system on their own and outside of whatever arbitrary criteria individual caseworkers use to evaluate potential parents. It's a starting point.

At the same time, he's using his personal computer that's linked in with the Nest system to add a few extra layers of protection to Jason's falsified information. It's a fairly routine task, but he wants to ensure no one realizes he's there.

His screen freezes.

_O: Do I need to know why you suddenly needed to hack the SSA?_

"Almost no one," Tim corrects himself with a sigh; of course she's keeping tabs on him.

He types a quick reply:

_T: You mean you don't already?_

_O: No. I'm waiting for you to be upfront about it._

That would be a definite change from the usual Bat _modus operandi_. He wonders how long it's going to last.

_T: Precautionary alias for a case._

_O: I see._

_T: You know if it was anything more than that I'd have reached out._

_O: Even if it involves a certain red sheep of the family?_

Tim groans, and only just refrains from pressing his palms against his eyes in frustration. Babs' stance on Jason isn't exactly clear, and she's just as likely to give Bruce a heads-up about possible Red Hood antics coming up as wait for him to figure it out himself.

_T: Even then. This is a personal thing and I'm handling it._

_O: Alright. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt._

_O: For now._

Which Tim knows from experience will only last for so long; any potential threat in Gotham—and Jason is still occasionally classified as one of those—and Oracle might just take a page out of Batman's mitigation playbook.

"Problem for another day," he tells himself.

He's starting to feel like that's going to become his new mantra.

⁂⁂⁂

The rest of the afternoon is spent on the phone, fielding calls from various departments and sorting out production complications. Interspersed are texts and Facebook messages from friends and family—Dick, wondering if dinner is still happening on Friday, Bruce wanting updates on the mob case, the Titans wanting to know if he's coming to San Francisco that weekend—

Tim is evasive with all except the last one, informing Bart that there's some family drama going on that will keep him home for a while. Once the speedster knows, everyone else will know, so it's about as effective as sending a group text.

He resists the urge to phone Jason and see how he's doing; he's rather sure he won't pick up.

("I ain't a damn kid that needs checkin' up on, Drake.")

Not that Tim is checking up on him. He just knows that whenever someone in the family is going through a personal crisis, that's usually the time when Gotham's rogues decide to act out.

So really, ensuring Jason's stress levels stay manageable is a public service.

"Because _that_ sounds like logic," he chides himself.

Damian shows up around 3 o'clock and spends the next two hours alternatively disparaging everything about Tim from his too-long hair to how he organizes his filing system, to discussing WE resource allocation for an animal shelter he wants to open. The conversational whiplash is enough to make Tim's head spin, and he makes a note in his phone to talk to Bruce about whatever it is that's going on between them that's so bad Damian prefers Tim's company to his father's.

_Either Bruce put his foot down about another of Damian's strays, or he still won't agree that Robin should have a private prison to lock up rogues. _

Whatever the reason, Tim is very much out of his depth at the youngest Bat's newest tactics for taking his frustrations out on Tim.

_Though I guess workplace inconveniences are a huge step up from swords to the gut. Could always be worse, I guess._

It turns out he's not the only one learning new and interesting coping strategies. Upon arriving home at six, he finds Jason tweaking the tech in his gear on the kitchen table, baby carrier three feet away.

His entire body is tense, like a spring ready to snap.

"Was she up all day or something?" Tim asks on the way in, putting his bag on the floor and loosening his tie.

Jason shoots him a baleful look. "She's been crying all day. And she's still barely eating. I think she's starting to look a little yellow—Tim, why is she yellow?"

And Jason sounds—dare he say it—almost frazzled.

_Right. Time for more damage control._

"I've got her," Tim says, easing into Jason's personal space and taking the baby. "You go to sleep. Or shower. Or watch TV or something. You're starting to go batty."

That earns a disgusted look, and even Tim winces because that was just _bad_.

"Did you seriously just say that?" Jason asks.

"No, you're sleep-deprived and hallucinated it," he replies.

"I'll allow it," Jason says, yawning. "But only because it could be true."

Jason shuffles off upstairs and Tim heaves himself onto the couch, pulling out his phone to check his usual online haunts for potential cases or clues for his current case. Social media and forums are pretty good sources once you learn how to weed out the sensationalist crap.

After thirty minutes of nothing, he gives it up and wanders over to the dwindling pile of baby items. Jason hasn't returned yet, so he's either passed out from exhaustion in the shower or actually made it to bed. Since Tim can't hear the water running, he supposes it's the latter.

_It won't kill me to go without the pre-patrol nap today, I guess._

Studying the pile, he notes that the boxes with the crib, changing table and whatever else needed assembly, have all gone missing. Presumably, Jason set those up this morning in a fit of boredom or paranoia.

The only things that haven't been touched are the blankets, soft toys and garments, other than whatever Isa's been changed into already.

There are only about twenty different pieces of clothing, and according to his not-so-new best friend the Internet, that's not going to be nearly enough given infant propensity to upchuck. Especially since it's not all the same size. Tam had to guess how big Isa was, so at least half the onesies here won't fit her for another month or two, which isn't supremely helpful for right now.

Back to fiddling with his phone, Tim goes online to order some more supplies and discovers, to his delight, that there's an entire line of pop-culture related babywear. Star Wars, Star Trek, Doctor Who, Superhero logos…

He grins as he orders one of everything for next-day delivery, wondering whether Jason's more likely to complain or find it funny.

_Under normal circumstances, he'd probably find it funny. For someone _else_'s kid. _

There's still no sign of Jason after sunset, so Tim feeds and burps the baby, then sets up his laptop and tablet in the kitchen to check some of his surveillance feeds for the mob case. However, Isa protests every time he tries to put her down.

"What's wrong with you now?" he asks. "You're warm, you're fed—" He takes a pause to check and change her diaper, during which time she continues to mewl at him, "—and you're dry. Which means now's the time you got to sleep, okay? New babies are supposed to do three things: eat, poop and sleep. So get on that."

Once again he attempts to wrap her up and place her in her carrier, but the whimpering becomes flat-out crying, her tiny face becoming purple with rage and her eyes pinching shut.

"Okay, okay—putting you down is a no," he sighs, tucking her back in his arms to rock her gently. He watches his computer monitor balefully, knowing if he's holding the baby, there's not going to be any hacking of Gotham's CCTV tonight.

_Could text Babs and ask her to do it. Except then she'll want to know why. _

Which is also a no.

One-handed, he searches out his phone again, looking up possible reasons for Isa's current temper and potential solutions online. One thing jumps out at him and he brightens. A quick trip to the Nest and back, and he has what he was looking for.

Which is how Jason finds him when he finally comes back downstairs around eight o'clock, showered, rested and altogether more human-looking than what Tim came home to. He pauses at the foot of the stairs, squinting at Tim. "Is that your cape?"

"My cape is made out of state-of-the-art piezoelectric fabric substrates that can become a weapon with the right electrical frequency," Tim retorts, trying not to feel entirely self-conscious from his seat at the kitchen table, wrapped in a makeshift _mei-tai_ with Jason's daughter drooling into his chest. "Also, that thing's filthy."

"And this is…?"

"My _old_ cape," Tim replies, going back to his computer. "Sometimes newborns just need to hear a heartbeat to calm them down. The best way is skin to skin, but I'm kind of in the middle of something, so this is the next best thing."

Jason tilts his head to one side in consideration. "That's a good idea."

"Yeah, I looked it up online."

"Of course you did," Jason groans, rubbing his temple. "Because that's what normal people do. I didn't even think of it, I was too busy trying to get her to stop crying." He huffs, almost rueful. "Why the hell am I surprised that you're good at this? You're good at friggen everything."

_Huh. A compliment. Those are almost as rare coming from Jason as they are from Damian. He must really be out of his comfort zone. _

"Maybe it's just because I have a certain measure of distance from it all," Tim suggests, standing up to leave his temporary workstation. "If I suddenly found out I had a kid, I don't know how I'd react."

"Bull. You're just like B. You'd just stick it in the back of your mind and forget about how to feel about it until you're ready to deal."

Tim feels a sudden flare of anger. "Is that actually how you think I am?"

"You going to tell me you're not?" Jason challenges.

Tim opens his mouth to do exactly that, only to wrinkle his nose at the sudden stench arising from the lump of baby tucked against his chest.

"Ugh. Someone needs a change."

_Again. Guess I wasn't so far off about the 'eat, poop and sleep' thing._

Jason snorts. "As far as conversation enders, that's a pretty good one."

Tim carefully unwinds the fabric from around his body and deposits the slowly waking baby into her father's arms. "Tag."

"You suck."

"Serves you right for being a dick."

He feels almost no guilt leaving Jason to deal with the soiled diaper and cranky baby this time, still smarting a bit about the resentful accusation that was lobbed at him.

_Just because I can compartmentalize doesn't mean I forget about things. Or that I don't feel them._

He's just not like Jason, or Dick, or Damian, who get angry and lash out as loudly and as viciously as they can. And he's not like Bruce, either, since Bruce really _can_ flip a switch and put something difficult out of his mind if it interferes with the all-important Mission.

Tim's tried doing that, and as successful as he was in his quest to locate Batman when he was lost in the time stream, that period of Tim's life was the most desperate and hopeless he's ever felt. It was painful in a way that was different from losing his father, or Connor, or Bart—mostly because he was _forced_ to bottle everything up to get the job done.

It was months after Bruce returned before Tim started processing things normally again.

_Not that I should expect Jason to know that, _he muses as he grapples through the rooftops of Gotham. _He might know _about_ me from my files and when we occasionally work together, but he's never stuck around long enough to get to know anyone who came after him. _

The night is at its darkest, cut through only by the Bat-signal in the distance. He won't be running into Bruce tonight then unless the GCPD is bringing him in on the Gazzo case. It's unlikely since there hasn't been any retaliation yet. GCPD protocol dictates they'll pass it off to Homicide until orders from on high turn it over to Major Crimes.

Red Robin ends up stopping two muggings and a drug deal before making his way to Gazzo territory to take some surveillance photos of his own. Security images are helpful in general, but he has camera tech that will let him focus on details the CCTV won't pick up.

It's another relatively early night for him, returning home just after midnight to upload his findings to the servers and shower off the grit and grime of the city.

The apartment is silent, and he expects Jason and Isa to be upstairs in the newly built nursery, but upon closing the secret door again, he notices the faint sound of breathing. Creeping over to the sitting room, he finds Jason passed out on the couch beside Isa's carrier. The television is on but not showing any channel, instead casting a solid blue light across the room.

Tim can't help noticing how Jason's habitual frown has eased in slumber. There's no trace of a sneer or growl on his lips right now, his mouth parted only to breathe.

He has never seen the older man like this.

There are pictures of him at the manor, of course, most of them hidden away in dusty boxes. It's only recently they've started cropping up at the manor again, though Tim isn't sure whether it's Dick or Alfred that's been putting them there.

_Hell, maybe it is Bruce. It's the exact kind of gesture he'd make to try to tell Jason he wants him around more, without actually having to tell him directly. _

Whoever's responsible for them, Tim's memorized all of those photos. The boy in those is always grinning or making silly faces or not paying attention to the photographer because he's busy doing something he shouldn't be.

If there's a picture of Jason looking so calm and peaceful, it's hidden away in Bruce's personal files where no one can find them.

Tim can sort of see why given how vulnerable his predecessor looks right now. This is the Jason that Bruce remembers, the one he's built up in his memory that's different from the Jason once enshrined in the much-maligned class case in the Cave. This is the Jason Bruce is trying to find whenever he squares off with Red Hood and mourns as lost when he can't find him.

_Which is stupid since he's still _right here_. I wonder if anyone else will ever realize that?_

Tim decides not to wake Jason; he might have been a jerk before, but he should sleep while he can.

Instead, he settles in on the other couch with his laptop to review the surveillance shots he took himself and from the security feeds. If he can figure out just which of these mobster muscle heads is the easiest to break, he can get a better idea of what might have happened to the teenager in concrete.

_I'll just do a quick scan tonight, and study them in more detail tomorrow. _

Of course, as usual, he gets invested in his work and doesn't look up again until about four o'clock, when Isa's sharp cry pieces the silence. Tim jumps, having completely forgotten her presence, but that's nothing on Jason, who vaults upward from his spot on the couch, body tense and prepared to react to whatever caused the noise, friend or foe.

His hand is already reaching for a gun—one that Tim is thankful to see is no longer there.

"It's okay, it's just time for the next feeding," he says quietly, trying to sound both casual and soothing at the same time. Based on the bleary look he's getting from Jason, he's less than successful.

Jason glares at his empty hand, clenched as if to hold onto something, and Tim must be on the verge of falling asleep himself because for a moment he imagines he can see the outline of a sword.

_Great. Hallucinations. Tomorrow's going to be a triple-shot of espresso day, I can tell. _

And it's suddenly occurring to him that babies and their sudden loud noise-making skills might not be the best thing for someone that's suffered the kinds of trauma Jason has.

He makes up a mental note to look up some strategies for that. He's not quite sure how he'll bring up the subject with Jason. While Jason is adamant that Tim's the most like Bruce, when it comes to avoiding problems, he's the one that has more in common with the man.

For now, he decides to just act as normal.

"You know there's a perfectly good bed upstairs?" he quips. "Thousand thread count, fluffy pillows, solid mattress…"

"Shut up. I was watching something. Guess I fell asleep." Jason swings around and makes a move toward the baby, but Tim makes a motion to stop him.

"Don't worry about it, I've got it."

"You already took her when you got back."

"How do you know? You were sleeping?"

"I was resting my eyes."

"Uh-huh."

"Go to sleep or you'll be face-planting in your coffee tomorrow."

"I'll be fine, I—"

"This isn't your responsibility, Replacement. Go to bed—I'll handle this."

Jason is clearly not someone to be reasoned with when sleep-deprived; Tim always suspected that, of course, but he's never had the up-close-and-personal experience. It doesn't make him any less frustrated.

"The whole point of you staying here is for me to help," he reminds him. "So would you just accept it already?"

"You're also the one with a nine-to-five job and actually need the friggen sleep."

Tim grimaces. "Fine. But I'm going to make up a schedule for us tomorrow so we can divide the babysitting more equitably."

"You do that, boy scout. Why don't you make a chore-wheel while you're at it?" Jason jeers, taking the baby and heading for the kitchen. "This isn't kindergarten."

"Are you sure about that?" Tim shoots back, scowling in frustration.

_Just for that, I _will_ make one. See if I don't._

⁂⁂⁂

_Just a reminder that in this time of the pandemic, a lot of people are being laid off or facing dire health circumstances. Writing, drawing, creating podfics, etc., is a major outlet for a lot of creative people to deal with the stress of what's going on when we feel there's not much else we can contribute. Likewise, fandom content is keeping a lot of people entertained and helping them check out when stuff gets to be too much._

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_PS: For Goddess' sake, STAY HOME! It's not even just about you keeping yourself safe, but not passing on a virus that could kill someone who is immunocompromised. The longer people insist on ignoring social-distancing and quarantine, the longer this whole crisis is going to last. So do the responsible thing-stay home and read fanfiction!_


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